


The Boy Who Lived to Matchmake

by kaitward



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Hermione Granger, Auror Partners, F/M, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-06-22 05:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15574377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaitward/pseuds/kaitward
Summary: Harry Potter has become very proud of his investigatory skills, and is increasingly sure that Draco Malfoy has fallen for Hermione Granger. Determined to test his theory, he orchestrates meetings between the two. Meanwhile, Draco is dealing with guilt, self-loathing, and a very awkward issue involving his 'broomstick'. Told as a mix of Harry and Draco's POVs.





	1. Prologue - Harry's Big Speech

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for language and countless references to erections.
> 
> I wanted to take a minute to thank CourtingInsanity, who has beta edited the prologue and first two chapters of this story. She did great work and had a great turnaround time, and I highly recommend her. :) Due to a mix of real life circumstances, social awkwardness/anxiety on my part (lul), and my completely unpredictable writing turnarounds, I have opted to continue future chapters without the use of a beta (at least for now), but this is no reflection on the quality of her beta work. If you're reading this, CI, I apologize!

**Prologue - Harry’s Big Speech**

May 3, 1999  
Ministry of Magic  
Department of Mysteries  
Courtroom Seven Conference Room  
11:34 am

Harry Potter glanced at his watch, the familiar face calming him slightly.

So far it had been four minutes. Four minutes since he’d entered the conference room and seen Draco Malfoy for the first time in just over a year. Four minutes since the men had greeted each other with mirrored sneers. Four minutes since Harry had asked for a moment alone with his former school rival. Four minutes since the click of the closing door announced the moment Harry had been practicing for for weeks. 

Five minutes. 

Draco sat with his wrists magically bound, scowl fixed to his face and eyes fixed to the table. Time, as well as his recent stint in Azkaban, had changed him. He was still good looking, Harry allowed himself to begrudgingly admit; _if you’re into ferrets._ Draco’s hair was longer and still more orderly than Harry’s own despite the imprisonment. There was no product, but it appeared Draco had never actually _required_ product to make his hair obey. He was more gaunt than Harry recalled, and as pale as ever, the white stripes on the Azkaban jumpsuit almost hidden against the light skin. His jaw and cheekbones, always sharp, now looked downright dangerous. 

Harry did not wish to speak first, but he was sure his rival felt the same. He was also sure that Draco had more patience, thanks to months of sitting in Azkaban. Sitting at this table, even with Harry, was certainly better than sitting in a cell. Harry crossed his arms in a feeble attempt at intimidation, and could almost feel how badly Draco wished to mirror the posture. The spell binding his wrists prevented it, however, and instead he placed both palms together in front of him, rhythmically tapping his long fingers against each other. Harry let out a quiet guffaw, and, happy with the simple victory of being able to maneuver his limbs, he allowed Draco a rare win, and spoke first. 

“I suppose you’ve been told-”

“I know why you’re here, Potter.” Draco said the words, but when Harry looked at him, it was as though nothing had happened. Draco’s expression remained dispassionate, his posture was stiff, and his fingers continued their tapping. “What I don’t know is why you’ve insisted on a heart-to-heart first.”

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and fought the urge to call Draco an ungrateful prat. “I have something to say to you, and since I’d prefer to never see you again, I thought I’d get it over with.”

Draco’s position still did not shift. His eyes did not widen in curiosity; his fingers did not stop tapping; it was almost as if he’d been struck with an errant _Petrificus totalus_ that froze all but his hands. A glint in his eye was all that revealed he held any interest at all in listening. 

“I have decided to testify at your trial,” Harry began after taking a deep breath. “As I did in your mother’s. And I want you to know why.” 

Draco gave a mirthless laugh, his fingers finally stilling. “I am aware of your hero complex, Saint Potter, so spare me-”

Harry barked out a laugh as well, and lifted the corner of his mouth in a superior grin. “My hero complex does not extend to you, Malfoy.” He’d saved Draco’s life in the Room of Requirement a year ago, and they both knew it - but neither brought it up. “I’m here because Hermione Granger asked me to be.”

Harry squinted across the table, scrutinizing Draco’s response. There was a slight narrowing of his eyes, a slight furrowing of his brow, a flash in his irises. 

Harry had never been very eloquent, and so his speech was well rehearsed, every minute detail planned. “We argued about it for hours, the three of us. When your representative approached me, I turned him down immediately. Why would I testify on _your_ behalf? Not only are you a prat and a bully, you’re a Death Eater. You almost murdered multiple people I care about. You tried to hand me over to Voldemort.” Draco grimaced at the mention of the name. “I was content to let you rot in Azkaban.” Another grimace appeared at the mention of the prison; Harry smirked at Draco’s discomfort. 

“But then Hermione brought up Dumbledore, and how he’d obviously seen something redeemable in you. The secret of what that was died with him, and I doubt we’ll ever figure it out. But she had a few other points, as well, and in the end she was able to convince me.

“And do you know what _really_ gets me?” Harry asked, removing his glasses and polishing them in what Ron had confirmed was a very condescending way. “She didn’t want me to tell you that it was her. She begged me to lie, to make something up. To say it was Dumbledore’s idea, or mine, or your mother’s.” Harry laughed again, remembering the conversation, and how passionate Hermione had been. “She doesn’t even want credit. She doesn’t want to gloat. She genuinely thinks you deserve to go free, and she doesn’t want you having to owe that to anyone, especially not to her.”

Draco’s face was blank, but his features were tight, as though he had to force them to portray no emotion. Harry leaned forward onto the table, and adopted a dramatic whisper.

“She doesn’t know I’m telling you this, but I am. Because I don’t think that’s fair, Malfoy. I don’t think you should get to walk and not know why. I don’t think you should continue living a normal, happy life, blissfully unaware of to whom you owe it all.”

He raised his voice, and pushed his glasses back on to his face. “I want you to remember that a lowly muggleborn has bested you in every way. She is the argument as to why muggleborns are not inferior. She’s smarter, stronger, faster, kinder, better. Every time you take a breath of fresh air, remember why it’s possible. Remember that she fought for you, and remember that you didn’t give her the same treatment when your positions were reversed. Remember that thanks to a _Mudblood_ \- one whose death you’ve wished for, one who your chosen side would’ve eliminated without thought - your precious pureblood line may live on.”

His speech finally finished, Harry rested his eyes again on Draco. The blond’s hands, still bound at the wrist, were clenched into fists. The corners of his mouth were turned steeply downwards, his jaw locked tight. He was still glaring at the table, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised to see it start emitting smoke at any moment. 

“Again, Hermione doesn’t know I’m telling you this. I’d prefer to keep it that way, but I know better than to trust you. If you _do_ decide-”

“I won’t bring it up.” The quiet sentence was initiated with a low growl. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“I’m serious, Malfoy, you stay away from her, and don’t think you can turn us against each-”

“I. Won’t. Mention. It.” Draco snapped, punctuating with pauses. 

“Well - well good,” Harry responded lamely, brought up short. He had been expecting an argument and was fully prepared to launch his retort. He’d been expecting Draco to protest and whine, to attempt to derail Harry’s words, to say something cruel and mocking - to do anything, really, expect for wordlessly listen and then complacently agree to keep the whole thing a secret. 

Harry got up to leave, satisfied. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, he thought he heard Draco say something. Turning back, he saw that Draco’s cheeks were slightly pink, and he was still focused on the same place on the table. 

“What?” 

Draco shifted in his seat. “I said thank you, Potter.” He cleared his throat, and before Harry could ask if Draco had heard a word of the speech he’d just flawlessly delivered, Draco added, “For my mother.” 

Draco looked up, and for a brief second their eyes met. Harry gave a terse nod, feeling inexplicably guilty, and left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to mention that I have no clear publishing/writing schedule. I have the first 5 chapters completed and will post probably weekly, but after that I make no promises as to when the next chapters will be posted. I hope this will not turn you off of reading this story. The pressure of knowing people are waiting for me to post is a great motivator. I write fanfiction solely for fun and to keep myself immersed in my favorite world, and share this in the hopes that someone else may enjoy it. If you came from my Owl SPEW one-shot - I do have a follow-up for that in the works that I may start to post soon as well. Thanks in advance for reading and hopefully reviewing!


	2. Chapter 1 - Draco's Big Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting chapter 1 as well, since the prologue is short. Enjoy!

**Chapter 1 - Draco’s Big Problem**

April 6, 2001  
Ministry of Magic  
Department of Magical Law Enforcement  
Auror Headquarters  
1:58 pm

Draco Malfoy was sitting in his cubicle, daydreaming about fucking Hermione Granger.

A cubicle wasn’t the ideal location to partake in such an activity, but it had happened there before and it would happen there again. Privacy wasn’t high on the list of priorities for the department of MLE, and if Draco had to rush to the loo every time an impure thought about Hermione crossed his mind, someone would certainly notice and suggest he seek out a healer specializing in men’s urology issues. 

Thankfully, robes were loose enough to hide the evidence of his daydreams, although he did have to be careful on days he wore muggle clothing, and had worked out circuitous routes which bypassed her desk for just such occasions. It was an ironic misfortune that the one witch who would most approve of his broadening horizons was the one witch he had to tactfully avoid while he sported his muggle suits or wool coats. Not to mention he looked damn good in muggle clothing, and thanks to his spontaneous stiffening around her, she never got to appreciate it - not that she was the type to do so. 

It wasn’t like seeing her would _always_ result in a pants tent, but he could not identify a pattern in the occurrences, and thus lived in fear of being struck unexpectedly. It had happened once in a department meeting, during one of her particularly well-done presentations; she wasn’t even wearing anything provocative, or bending over to pick something up, or anything that would understandably result in arousal. Instead, he actually found himself turned on by the depth of work the project had clearly taken, her confidence as she presented it, and the way her teeth clamped onto one side of her bottom lip as she considered questions. 

Another time, they had run into each other as she was exiting the breakroom and he was entering; the narrowness of the doorway resulted in her brushing against him, muttering flustered apologies, her rear end just barely scraping along the front of his hips, the cloud of her hair bombarding him with scent. That instance had been particularly bothersome. Occasionally, when he had not self-satisfied in a while, he found full salutes triggered by just her laughter, and the way she would toss her head back, hair thrown behind her shoulders, in response to a particularly amusing joke.

In the almost two years since his trial, he had considered Hermione Granger quite often. Just as Harry sodding Potter had wanted, every time Draco acknowledged his freedom, he acknowledged that it came from the woman he had hated and tormented for her blood. At first it made him bitter. At first, he hated her for helping him. He sulked in the Manor for weeks, thoughts endlessly running through his head. After the initial stream had resolved, and he examined it, he equated the pattern to the five stages of grief. 

Denial: Like how _dare_ she presume he needed the help of a Mudblood! He would’ve been fine on his own; Malfoy money could solve most any problem. He didn’t need Dumbledore, he didn’t need Harry Potter and he didn’t need _her._ He was not one of her precious house elves; he would not be her charity case.

Anger: Like how very _Gryffindor_ it was to insert into a situation that didn’t concern her and try to orchestrate the outcome. She assumed he was worth saving, which meant she assumed he’d had any doubts about his position in the war. She always thought she knew everything, the stupid little know-it-all, but she knew _nothing_ about him. 

Bargaining: Like how he would do _anything_ to get her off his mind, even go and sit the utterly deserved sentence she’d abolished for him. It was better to rot in prison, knowing that he was at least paying for what he’d done, than to sit in the tainted Manor, unable to expunge Hermione Granger and the debt he owed her from his mind.

Depression: Like why would she help him, _him_ , when he’d gone to extremes to make her life miserable for the most ridiculous of reasons. He didn’t deserve help from her, from _anyone._ He’d nearly killed his classmates, he’d let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and he’d watched, impotent, as she was tortured on his drawing room floor. 

Acceptance: Like how Hermione had saved him when he didn’t deserve it, and he would never, _ever_ forget it. Because she hadn’t wanted him to know, he would never be able to thank her. He’d forever share a secret with Harry Potter. On occasion, he would catch Harry staring at him with a look of poorly disguised confusion. Draco assumed this was a representation of shock that he hadn’t spilled the Bertie Botts to Hermione yet. 

He remembered Harry mentioning the ‘few other points’ Hermione had used in Draco’s defense, and he drove himself crazy trying to figure out what they could be. Had she mentioned the Astronomy tower, and him lowering his wand? Had she presented the day he’d been found crying in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? Had she told Harry about that night in the Manor, about how Draco had met her eyes between bouts of Bellatrix’s torture, about how she had seen his helpless tears before he was able to control them? Were there other moments she’d noticed, other instances that made her believe he had some good left in him when he didn’t even believe it himself? 

After that, his thoughts drifted to the inconsistencies in the beliefs he’d been raised with, and turned a hell of a lot more self-loathing. _She is the argument to why muggleborns are not inferior,_ Harry had said. _Don’t you think I know that?_ Draco had wanted to say, had wanted to _scream,_ but he was too filled with humiliation from being lectured by Potter, and worse yet, knowing he was right. Draco had always known that she flew in the face of all his Pureblood ideals, and it was part of the reason he’d treated her, in particular, so terribly. Every exam she’d aced, every question she’d answered, every spell she’d flawlessly mastered, had only increased his hatred towards her. 

When he was finally able to break the surface of his thoughts and return to the physical world, he was ready to make some changes. It had been eighteen months since the war, sixth months since Hermione had ensured he was a free man, and if he was to prevent her from regretting it, he had things to accomplish. 

He signed up for his N.E.W.T.s and received Outstandings all around, with Astronomy being the E-xception. He applied for a position in the Auror training program, and thanks to his N.E.W.T.s (and, alright, a substantial bribe), he got in. The Ministry had introduced expedited training for qualified candidates; three years was too long when the department had been gutted by the war, and dark wizards were still evading capture throughout Europe. Draco easily qualified, and completed the expedited training so well that even those initially against his inclusion in the program were swayed, for the most part. 

He had expected Harry to be in the department, and _maybe_ the red-haired wonder, though Draco seriously doubted the Weasel’s ability to subdue even the least intelligent of foes. He had not expected to see _her_ there, hair bushy, smile easy as ever, a brief faltering look in her eyes as he’d greeted her, jaw stiff, heart hammering, hands tightly gripping his box of belongings. 

He had assumed she’d be a professor, or a healer, or a magical creatures activist. He had thought she’d go back to school, maybe even Muggle university. Instead she was right there, _taunting_ him. Was he living in some cosmic joke? Was he doomed to sit so near the woman who had given him his life, unable to thank her, unable to tell her that she was the only reason he’d even attempted to get where he was now? 

And when had she become so damn fetching? The woman he worked with now looked nothing like the girl he remembered from school, though he sometimes wondered if his prejudices had affected even the memory of her. There was nothing glaringly evident that had changed her appearance so drastically, and yet mere weeks into working at the department, he’d been struck with an unfortunate case of the stiffies and had been struggling to tame the issue ever since. 

But it had all become so much worse two weeks ago.  
 _  
Draco was on the prowl for coffee. He was not a morning person, and having to interact with coworkers before noon meant he required caffeine in large doses. The breakroom was the first location he’d always look, before going through a checklist of increasingly desperate options. That day, as he approached the room, he heard his name, and paused outside the door to listen._

_“-Draco sodding Malfoy. If I have to listen to her brown nose to him one more time…” It was a female’s voice; he thought Susan Bones. Two more females laughed, and Draco felt his stomach clench slightly as he recognized_ her _laugh among them._

_“Right?!” Said another female, one whose voice he did not immediately recognize. “Does she not know how obvious she’s being?”_

_Hermione’s laughter rang through the group, seeming to hit his ear at the exact right angle to make it reverberate through his skull. “_ Oh, Draco,” _Hermione mocked, lilting her voice just so. Draco now knew Hermione was imitating the new department secretary, Jessica, (or was it Jennifer?) who was clearly enamored with Draco. Except ‘Jennica’s’ voice did nothing but annoy Draco, while_ this… __

_Listening to_ this _was becoming problematic. He tried to think if he’d ever heard his given name from her mouth before. He didn’t think so, but with all the times he’d imagined it he couldn’t be sure. The way she said it was intoxicating, and, unbidden, his mind filled with images of her mouth, her tongue flicking off the roof of her mouth as she uttered the sharp turn of_ Drake, _her plump lips forming a round ‘o’ at the end._

“Let me get your coffee for you. Oh, Draco, can I help you make copies? Draco, can I sit in your lap and feed you grapes?” __

_The group of girls burst into giggles again, and then a distinctly familiar male voice joined in._

_“Why’re the new girls always attracted to that git? What’s he got that I don’t?” Ron Weasley asked, and Draco’s stirring parts immediately ceased their stirring as he imagined the pout Weasley was certainly sporting. Draco contemplated leaving, but knew even as he considered it that he wouldn’t - or couldn’t. He told himself that the fact he’d even considered it was a step in the right direction._

_“Brains?” Hermione asked innocently, and Draco imagined a mischievous smile playing at the corners of her mouth. He couldn’t stop the embarrassing pitter-patter his heart made at her comment, even though he knew she was only messing with the Weasel, not acknowledging his own intelligence. He felt the familiar twist of sadness in his gut that she would never aim a smile his way._

_A light thwacking sound indicated to Draco that Ron had probably punched her on the arm. For a moment, Draco was distracted by daydreams of teasing her; of pinching her waist; of her playfully pushing away from him, smiling._

_The second female spoke up again, and Draco recognized her this time as Alicia Spinnet._

_“You have to admit he’s dreamy…” Any remaining giggling ceased at her words, and Ron made a noise of disgust._

_“You weren’t unlucky enough to be in his year,” Susan said. Draco felt this was a little unfair - he had never gone out of his way to be unpleasant to Susan directly, (although he’d been notoriously unkind to Hufflepuff house in general), and he was always polite to her around the office._

_“It’s because they don’t know him, Ron,” Hermione said with finality. “Jessica looks at him and sees a young, handsome man.” Again, Draco’s heart hammered annoyingly in his chest at the idea Hermione found him handsome, even though he knew where this was headed. “Give her a few weeks; she’ll figure out he’s a snake. Then you can have a go.”_

_There was laughter again, then some shuffling, and Draco had to skurry away, caffeine-less, lest he be caught._

Since then, he had tried to move on with his life. He had tried to forget what he’d heard. He was unsuccessful. 

The negative comments didn’t bother him much. He knew he was not loved around the office. He was respected, but for his work, not his personality. He didn’t particularly make it easy on anyone, anyway. Part of him felt it was simpler that way - simpler to be unapproachable, so that when he wasn’t approached, he would have something to blame it on other than his shameful past.

The final remark from Hermione hurt a little, but what could he expect? Just because she’d saved him didn’t mean she liked him, and he had resigned himself to the fact that she probably never would. They exchanged curt niceties around the office, but he could tell she was uncomfortable in his presence, and so he inflicted himself upon her as little as possible. On the occasions when they were tasked to work together, he completed as much of the assignment as was possible on his own, and after the first time, she followed his example and did the same. It was a unique torture to work so closely with the source of his obsession and know he could never have her. Thankfully, the department head, Hestia Jones, seemed aware of the tumultuous past between Draco and a few other key employees and thus did not place him with the Golden Trio often. 

What stuck with him, what _tormented_ him, what ate away at him during his waking hours and woke him panting and sweating during his sleeping hours, were her lips uttering his first name.

_Oh, Draco. Can I sit in your lap?_

His mind conveniently cut and pasted only the parts he wanted to hear and played them on an endless loop. If he was not actively involved in an important assignment, or flying, or having dinner with his mother, (and thank Merlin his mother’s presence was enough to temporarily resolve the issue), he would hear Hermione uttering his first name. His fantasies evolved, until he was useless if he didn’t have a wank at least twice a day. 

It didn’t help that he spurned other women. He was a young and obviously hormonal man in need of release, but he’d chosen his hand over a woman for at least a year now, rejecting any who approached him and refusing the setups his mother attempted. It hadn’t taken long for Draco to realize that because Hermione had saved him, no other woman would ever be enough. No woman would ever come close to having the impact on his life she’d had. He couldn’t concentrate on their often drab yammering, and even if they had something interesting to say, he found his mind drifting. When he had been with other women, he had imagined Hermione, had even purposefully courted women who resembled her. After the third time he felt too dirty to continue, and back to the hand it was. 

But despite his earlier intimacy with the appendage, here he was, unable to focus on anything but her, on her voice in his head, on her laughter floating through the office, on the fitted muggle skirt she wore today, on the way she’d tied her hair into a high bun and stuck her wand through it. 

Glancing at the clock, he gave the day up for a lost cause and decided to cut out early, taking the long way out to avoid her desk. 

The cosmic joke Draco was living couldn’t resist the opportunity, it seemed, and as he entered the Atrium of the Ministry, he stopped dead, his lips twitching as he barely resisted the urge to cackle insanely. What were the chances that Hermione Granger would _ever_ leave work early, let alone today, at the exact time Draco was trying to avoid her? 

The bun that had so titillated him was still in place, though a few stubborn curls had worked their way free. Her wand was still twisted through it, and the fact that she had enough trust in the world they occupied to wear her wand in her hair gave Draco a pang in his chest. He would never know the innocence and trust she possessed; his wand was always hidden yet easily accessible. 

Her smart muggle outfits were always enticing, and today’s was no different. The skirt was high waisted and tight to the knees, her exposed lower legs terminating in simple kitten heels. He knew she’d had a blazer on earlier, but it was gone now, exposing a simple white blouse with golden buttons, tucked at the waist and turned up at the elbows. 

As he looked at her, remembering his daydreams of pinching her waist, of teasing her, a sense of recklessness overcame him and he called, before he could second guess himself; “Hermione Granger, buggering off early? Am I in the wrong dimension?”

She turned to him with a slight jump, clearly startled, and that’s when he saw Harry standing beside her, an alarmingly knowing smirk on his face.

_Harry sodding Potter._


	3. Chapter 2 - Harry's Hero Complex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one. The format sometimes leads to cutting off in odd places due to the perspective change. Might post the next one sooner than later.

April 6, 2001  
Ministry of Magic  
Atrium  
03:23 pm

Harry was becoming more and more certain that Draco Malfoy was falling for Hermione.

Ever since he had correctly deduced Draco’s status as a Death Eater, Harry had been very impressed with his own investigatory talents. Either of his best friends could contest to this; they’d certainly heard ‘I told you so’ often enough. 

When Draco had entered the Auror program, Harry had been more than a little surprised. Ron had been irate. Hermione had been downright terrified. None of them knew what to expect, but in all of their musings, they had never guessed what would actually come to pass. 

Draco slid into the department quietly and uneventfully. He preferred to work alone, he stayed out of the spotlight, and he turned down any invites to social events, always leaving work on time, never staying after to chat. He was stiff but polite, brief but thorough, sarcastic but light, and he avoided the Golden Trio more often than not. He was unrecognizable as the Draco Malfoy they had known; the snide ferret they’d attended school with would have taken credit for other’s work, revelled in the spotlight, and probably hosted any social events, inviting only those he deemed worthy. The old Draco would have sought out the Trio just to harass and belittle them, and bribed his way out of any trouble this brought on. 

Harry waited with bated breath for his secret to come out. It was only a matter of time before Draco and Hermione would feud, and Draco would reveal that he knew; he knew Hermione had helped him, and he knew Harry had broken his word and told. Harry waited for Draco to crumble; to tell Hermione he hadn’t needed the help of a Mudblood, that he resented her for her intervention, and that to him, she was still no better than dirt. Harry readied himself to console Hermione, to tell her she had done the right thing, that Draco would eventually realize what he owed her. Harry readied for a fallout that would never come.

Draco did not tell Hermione. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her altogether, more so even than Ron. As soon as Harry noticed this behavior, he began studying it, his self-professed investigatory talents hard at work. If Draco _still_ thought Hermione below him, then they were going to have a very serious problem. After a few months of monitoring him, Harry noted a few very important things.

One, that the tabloids of the wizarding world had pictured Draco with three women since the war, each looking progressively more like Hermione - at least in their wildly curly locks - and only one of them a Pureblood. The last woman he’d been seen with was ages ago. Unless there was something the tabloids didn’t know (and Harry begrudgingly acknowledged this was often the case), Draco was single, and had been for a while. 

Two, that Draco often walked through the office in ways that avoided passing Hermione’s desk. Harry was stumped by this, as he had not yet discerned a pattern between days Draco would walk by her desk and days he would not, but it still seemed significant, as walking by her desk was by far Draco’s easiest course through the department. 

Three, that when Draco was partnered with someone for an assignment, he had no issues working with the person and accomplishing flawless work, unless that person was Hermione (alright, or Ron, but there was no question as to Draco’s feelings for Ron). In those instances, Draco would hoard the case to himself and finish as much as possible on his own, before turning it over to Hermione for review and finishing touches. Hermione had interpreted this as ongoing prejudice and reluctance to work with her. Harry had other suspicions, but he had not yet shared them with her, confiding only in Ginny.

Four, that Draco watched Hermione, much as Harry watched Draco, although Harry was fairly certain he didn’t sport the same expression of longing when he looked at Draco. 

Individually, perhaps, these observations did not mean much. Added together, though, they led to a conclusion even a novice Auror could make. Draco was falling for Hermione, and he was terrified of it. His attempt at teasing her, before he’d seen Harry there, now became observation number five. 

“Hermione Granger, buggering off early? Am I in the wrong dimension?”

Hermione had jumped, not expecting anyone to see them leaving early, least of all Draco Malfoy. When she turned, Harry leaned forward slightly and shined a smirk at Draco, who, if it was possible, paled, and shifted his stance, for some reason pulling his hips back almost imperceptibly. 

“We have permission, Malfoy, if you’re thinking of turning us in,” Hermione replied coldly, hand automatically flying to one hip. The only time she was ever slow was when it came to recognizing men flirting with her. It would be even more difficult for her to recognize Draco doing so. As far as she knew, nothing had changed between them since Hogwarts. As far as she knew, Draco believed it was Narcissa who had begged for Harry’s testimony. 

“Hullo, Malfoy,” Harry grinned. 

Draco nodded in Harry’s direction, but never took his eyes from Hermione. “I didn’t mean -” he started, pinkness forming high on his cheekbones. His protests died on his tongue as he glanced down, clearly disheartened, and moved his lower jaw side to side. Harry felt a bit of pity for the man; Hermione was an intimidating witch to be attracted to for _anyone_ , let alone Draco, whose relationship with her was... unique, to say the least. 

“Tell me, do you have permission to skive off?” she pressed on, oblivious to Draco’s discomfort, cocking her hip even further to the side in her distress. Harry was among those who knew better than to even imply Hermione was breaking a rule, unless of course it had been her idea to break it. 

Draco’s still moving jaw snapped shut so hard his teeth audibly clicked, and he tightly responded, “No.”

Hermione hummed, but declined to comment further, for which Harry was thankful. His awareness of Draco’s unrequited feelings was making him decidedly uncomfortable. Hermione turned to lead the way to a fireplace, and Draco, so obviously dejected it was almost pathetic, turned as well. 

Harry could feel his hero complex kicking in, but as usual he was unable to stop it. “Malfoy,” he called to Draco’s retreating back. He had never felt much of a want to help Draco in the past, but the fact that he seemed to have fallen for Hermione made him much more likeable. Draco’s shoulder twitched slightly as he stopped and turned towards Harry. Hermione’s eyes followed as well, one eyebrow slightly quirked.

“A group of us is going to the pub later on. Care to join?” 

Harry had never played matchmaker before; in fact he usually stayed as far out of people’s relationships as he could. His attempt to intervene in the destruction of ‘Romione’ had taught him to keep well away. To the credit of whatever higher power existed, Romione had been able to retain their friendship. But this had all been well before Draco’s trial, and the awkwardness Harry had felt was a distant memory. 

Ron had moved on, flitting through relationships one after the other. Hermione had gone on a few dates, but no man had lasted very long. Whenever pressed about it, she’d say she was focusing on her career. Harry could tell she felt like a third wheel sometimes, though this feeling did not plague Ron at all during his single stretches, and she would often excuse herself early from more couple-centric events. 

It was unlikely that she would return Draco’s feelings, but would it hurt to invite him out and just see? Perhaps he could help two stubbornly, perpetually single coworkers at once. Harry ignored the glare Hermione was giving him; much like the new secretary Jessica, he only had eyes for Draco. 

He was silent for a long moment, looking at Harry with eyes narrowed, as though searching for a trick. Harry shrugged, and added, “C’mon, mate. It’ll be fun.” One of Draco’s eyebrows rocketed up at the word ‘mate,’ and he glanced briefly at Hermione, who was tapping her foot impatiently.

“I don’t think so,” Draco finally answered, absently swiping some errant hairs from his forehead. 

At this, Harry turned to Hermione, and gave her a _very_ pointed look. Hermione immediately recognized it as his ‘I’m-trying-to-be-heroic-here’ expression, and after an inaudible sigh, she took the hint. 

“You should really consider coming, Malfoy,” she said resignedly. “If you can recover from whatever illness has caused you to leave early, that is.” 

Harry watched Draco’s reaction closely, keenly logging away the details. His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and he ran his hands along the front of his robes quickly as though brushing off dirt. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and rolled his neck as though frustrated. Finally, he gave Hermione a quiet, half-hearted, “Maybe.”

Filing away the fact that the only _maybe_ Draco had ever given to a social outing was in response to Hermione as observation number six, Harry quickly told Draco the when and where, and followed Hermione through the floo.


	4. Chapter 3 - Draco's Hero, Firewhiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate thinking of names for new establishments. I ripped this one from HP world at Universal Studios. (BTW, if you haven’t been there, put it on your bucket list; it’s glorious).

April 6, 2001  
The Fountain of Fair Fortune Pub  
07:40 pm

Malfoys know to always arrive fashionably late, but in this case Draco simply did not want to be the first to arrive. Hermione was exceptionally punctual, her friends decidedly less so, and the idea of trying to make small-talk with her while they waited for others to show up was terrifying. He was fairly certain a forty minute buffer was sufficient to prevent even the slightest possibility of that.

He had never been to the Fountain of Fair Fortune, lovingly known as ‘the effer’ to its regulars. It was an unusual name for a pub, and would seem to imply a light, airy interior, but that was not the case. The lighting was low, the walls were warm, and the bar was a seamless plank of knotted wood. A fountain with water charmed to magically change colors occupied the entryway. Being a Friday, the pub was nearly full, the bar crowded with customers shouting drink orders over one another. 

Glancing around, Draco noticed the group of Aurors sitting at a large corner table. The group consisted of the Golden Trio - Draco knew it had been futile to wish for the Weasel’s absence - as well as Ginny Weasley (who was not an auror, but was practically attached to one), Susan Bones, Alicia Spinnet, and Anthony Goldstein. Draco breathed a sigh of relief at the last inclusion; Anthony was one of the few people who treated Draco normally at work, though Draco supposed this was because he’d never bullied Anthony. It was he who usually invited Draco to social outings. 

“Is that Draco Malfoy?” Ginny called over the noise of the pub, spotting him before he could sufficiently scout the group and decide if he wanted to stay. “Deigning to grace us with your presence?” she added when he reached the table, having dodged flying shots of liquor along the way. 

Before he could dream up a clever response, Anthony put in, “I can’t believe you showed up! We were just placing wagers on what your excuse would be this time.”

It was true Draco always made excuses when turning his fellow aurors down, but he had good reason. He knew the invites came out of pity, and he had no desire to accept pity from anyone, nor did he desire to inflict his presence on those who didn’t want it. He was well aware they all knew his excuses were made up, but he continued to give them just the same, knowing that both parties were better off for it. They would not have to pretend they liked him, and he would not have to pretend he was worth liking. 

Until, of course, _she_ had come along and invited him, albeit at Potter’s less-than-subtle urging. Apparently he was willing to accept pity from _her_. 

“I had ‘headache’,” Ginny told him. 

“‘Working late’,” said Anthony, who must not have known about Draco absconding early; to be fair, this was an excuse he used fairly often. 

“‘Dinner with mother,’” added Harry. 

“‘Shopping for hair care products,’” Hermione teased, and when she legitimately smiled up at him, Draco damn near passed out. His blood pounded in his ears, and he was momentarily unable to speak or breathe. The alcohol she had already imbibed made her skin glow, and her hair was carelessly thrown into a bun, though lower on her neck this time and with no wand twisted through it. He pulled out the chair between Alicia and Anthony and sat down before his sudden lightheadedness made him keel over.

“It seems Granger knows me best,” he was finally able to croak, forcing his useless lips into a small smile as the girls giggled a bit. Draco had failed to consider the other benefit of arriving forty minutes late: the group was already well on its way to full blown intoxication.

He accepted the shot of firewhiskey that Harry slid over, eager to catch up. Despite taking great care to ensure his broomstick would not be making an appearance at this gathering, the way Hermione had smiled at him and the way she was reacting to the alcohol were like to drive Draco to the edge.

In his experience, firewhiskey was a great help with that.

“To Sleakeazy’s Hair Potion!” Hermione called as she raised her own shot glass, momentarily meeting his eyes as she said it. “May it continue to tame the hair of Purebloods and Mudbloods alike.” The group laughed uproariously, Ron so loudly that other patrons turned to look, and Draco, stomach flipping uncomfortably, joined in as best he could, clinking his glass with the rest of them and downing the liquid swiftly. He wasn’t sure what to make of the way she casually threw out the word Mudblood; was she trying to bait him? To subtly shame him? Or was it the opposite - was she trying to make him feel more at ease by acknowledging their past nonchalantly? He couldn’t tell, and the firewhiskey did not make it easier.

What the firewhiskey apparently _did_ do was warm Hermione up to him considerably; in all the years he’d known her he didn’t think she’d ever smiled at him, and he knew for a fact she’d never teased him, but then again she’d never been sloshed around him either. It wouldn’t do to take her behavior now, and hope for it in their day to day interactions.

What had seemed like a good idea at first was starting to seem more and more reckless. What was he thinking, _increasing_ the time he was around her? He was having enough issues with her presence at work, let alone during his free time. The _last_ thing he needed was fuel for his impossible fantasies, and tonight had already provided that in spades. Now the group would expect him to say yes to more outings; he’d opened the door, and it was going to be a hell of a lot more difficult to shut it. 

_I’m doomed,_ Draco thought, despairing, as Ron called for another round.

“So what made you finally decide to show up?” Harry asked, a mischievous glint in his eye. Draco glanced sidelong at him before responding.

“Ah - you know - got bored with the house elves and decided some human interaction was in order.”

There were some faltered laughs at his words, and Draco followed nervous eyes to Hermione, whom he had been consciously avoiding looking at for too long.

She was fucking _beautiful,_ loose curls framing her face, one dangling down to rest on her exposed collarbone, from which he could barely tear his eyes away. The pub scene allowed her to sport more casual clothing than he’d seen her in before, and the grey knitted sweater she wore for some reason appealed to him more than a chemise would have. He did not have a direct sight line to her legs, but if he did, he imagined she would be wearing _jeans,_ the most wondrous thing muggles had ever produced - excluding Hermione.

“Be careful, Malfoy,” Ron started, half grin on his face. “Or you’ll be leaving here with a badge that spells-”

“For your infor _mation_ , Ronald,” Hermione interrupted self-importantly, puffing out her chest and wagging a finger at him. “I have dissolved S.P.E.W. Henceforth, we shall be known as -”

“What was it?” Harry now interrupted, placing his finger on his chin as he pretended to think about it. “ _Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status?_ ”

“Harry!” Hermione laughed, the sound tying Draco’s stomach in knots. “How did you remember that?”

“I swear alcohol makes me _more_ smarter,” Harry replied, his words slurring, and once again the group burst into laughter as Ron parceled out more shots.

“Is anyone going to tell me what S.P.E.W. is?” asked Anthony.

“The Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare,” chorused Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Harry simultaneously. 

Draco recalled Hermione’s bushy head bobbing around the Great Hall as she harassed her peers for donations to the house elves’ cause. He’d hated it at the time and made many jokes about it, but of course now he found her devotion nothing but adorable. It was one of the pet projects she’d discussed in some of the interviews she’d had with various media sources after the war. “S.P.E.W. was the best acronym the brightest witch of our age could come up with?” he asked teasingly, cocking an eyebrow at her.

He thought her eyes narrowed slightly, but the look was gone before he could be sure. He had meant the remark to come off lightly, but with their past she probably assumed he was mocking her. “I was blinded by passion, alright?” she smiled sheepishly. “Still better than some of the badges _you_ churned out,” she added, looking at him pointedly.

Draco felt his cheeks heat up immediately.

“Ah, yes, well-” 

“The _Potter Stinks_ badges!” Harry accused, pointing, as though he’d only just now remembered them. “ _Weasley is our King!_ ” 

It had taken less than twenty minutes for the conversation to include some of Draco’s past indiscretions. _Weasley was born in a bin_ had been the lyric his young self had penned, and he’d been so proud of it at the time. Now the reminder only turned his stomach; it was better to have been raised in a ‘bin’ full of love than in a cold Manor which had eventually felt more like a prison than a home.

He glanced at the faces around him, at Ron’s defiant expression, at Harry’s slightly regretful one, at Hermione’s reserved smile. He knew the song had been cruel, and even though he still didn’t particularly _like_ Weasley, he could admit that. Here was his chance to say something, anything, to make amends. He opened his mouth, thought he saw Hermione’s eyes widen, but before he could say anything, Ginny spoke up.

“Now now, Harry,” she said, placing a calming hand on his arm. “The Weasley is our King badges turned out alright, didn’t they?” She fixed an overly sweet smile on Draco, who remembered all too well how the badges (and accompanying song) had turned against him.

“Damn right they did,” Ron declared, and yanked up the sleeve of his robes to reveal an animated tattoo of a chess king flying on a broomstick on his bicep. He gave Draco a triumphant glare as he did so, daring him to say something antagonistic. He again considered saying something apologetic, or at the least self-deprecating, but he felt that the moment for it had passed. 

Draco forced himself to chuckle instead. “That was certainly not my intention when I penned the tune.” It was fitting, though; Ron’s penchant for wizard’s chess was well known, though Draco theorized the Weasel simply hadn’t played a proper opponent yet. 

“To our King!” Alicia called, raising her drink. The rest did the same, their glasses tinkling as they met. 

It was only Draco’s second drink and already he felt the hazy comfort provided by alcohol. He wondered how much the group had had before his arrival. He watched Hermione; the way she coughed after her shot indicated she did not partake often, and it was easy to tell her guard was good and lowered. Despite knowing that she was only warming up to him because of the alcohol, despite knowing the Aurors were only polite out of pity, despite knowing that he _definitely, definitely_ shouldn’t - he knew he would go out with the group again, if it meant he could relieve some of the ache he lived with constantly. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch slightly as a smile he was almost afraid of tugged at his lips. 

_Harry sodding Potter does it again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way too much fun writing this pub scene; it spans two more chapters, one Harry’s, one Draco’s. (Harry’s chapters in general are shorter, because I have more fun writing Draco). I’ll try to post them faster so there isn’t too much time between each. I hope Hermione’s actions in previous chapters are explained in Draco’s next chapter ;)


	5. Chapter 4 - Harry's Drunken Idea

Chapter 4 - Harry’s Drunken Idea  
April 6, 2001  
The Fountain of Fair Fortune Pub  
08:20 pm

It had taken a gargantuan effort to convince her, but Hermione had finally agreed to go to the pub as planned. She had walloped Harry for a good ten minutes when they’d returned to Grimmauld Place, bombarding him with questions. _What possessed you to invite Malfoy? How could you put me on the spot like that? Did you consider my feelings, did you consider Ron’s? Harry James Potter, when are you going to realize you don’t have to save everyone?!_

To which he had replied that technically _she_ had saved Draco, and now Harry felt somewhat responsible for his obviously self-imposed isolation.  
 _  
“When’s the last time you saw him outside of work? When’s the last time_ Witch Weekly _had anything to say about him? When d’you suppose is the last time he spent any free time outside the Manor?”_

_“He has his own friends, Goyle and Parkinson and-”_

_“We haven’t seen them around in ages! What kind of friends are they anyway? He’s our coworker, we should at least try-”_

_“We have tried!” Hermione said shrilly, and her hair sprung forth from its binds to cascade around her shoulders. She snatched her wand before it fell, pulling it roughly from the curls. “We helped him escape Azkaban, we saved his life, for Merlin’s sake, and what has-”_

_“Hermione!” Harry interrupted. “He’s turned his life around! Would the old Malfoy ever be an auror, would he be polite to us at work, would he-”_

_“That’s just it, Harry,” she said sadly, lowering herself onto his couch. “He’s polite, sure. I suppose he thinks he has to be. But he avoids me, he hates working with me, and he’s always so stiff and removed when we speak. He still thinks I’m below him, I know it, and it just_ eats _at me. I’m partially responsible for keeping him on the streets, and he has learned_ nothing _..”_

_Harry felt pity fill his chest. If his theory was correct, Draco did not want to avoid Hermione, and what she perceived as his prejudice was actually an attempt on his part to leave her in peace, like he assumed she wanted._

_Like Harry had heavily implied he should._

_He rubbed at the bridge of his nose frustratedly, pushing his glasses onto his forehead._

_“I don’t think that’s true,” he said carefully. He did not want to tell Hermione his theory; he may be incorrect, even though he was as certain of it as he had been of Draco’s dark mark, but even if he wasn’t, he didn’t want to make Hermione feel pressured to do anything she didn’t want to do. “I think he avoids you because he thinks you prefer it. I think he’s stiff and removed because he’s ashamed of himself. I think he hates working with you, especially, because it reminds him of the things he’s done.”_

_Hermione cocked her head at this, and Harry could imagine her sifting through memories, examining them to see if his theory fit. A frown steadily grew on her face, and a few minutes later she muttered, “I suppose you could - and I emphasize_ could _\- be right.”_

_“And I even think,” Harry added, growing reckless in his success, “he might’ve been trying to tease you earlier.”_

_She arched a brow at him sardonically, and he decided to drop it - he was pressing his luck as it was._

She had agreed to go out after that, insisting on arriving early to have a good Malfoy-free hour. Facing him, she argued, would be easier with alcohol in her system. 

Harry had waited until Ron was good and pissed before informing him of the possibility of Draco’s presence; an intoxicated Ron was a much more easygoing Ron. He was unconcerned, convinced Draco wouldn’t show up, but Hermione managed to pull a drunken promise to play nice out of him, just in case.

“I will if that tosser does,” Ron had slurred, knocking a shot glass off the table with his elbow as Ginny rolled her eyes. 

Not only was the whole ordeal going shockingly well, it was providing Harry with heaps of evidence to support his theory.

“To our king!” Alicia cried, and the group chorused after her, downing their next round. Harry took the opportunity to surreptitiously watch Draco.

He was being careful about it, but Draco was watching Hermione. His head faced forward, but Harry saw his eyes flicker to her, to the table, then back to her. A barely perceptible smile slowly formed on Draco’s face as Hermione coughed and puffed out air through pursed lips to relieve the sensation of the firewhiskey. 

A moment later, overheated from the alcohol, Hermione clumsily stood and pulled her sweater over her head. She was too inebriated to operate independently, and the sweater got stuck halfway over her head, her arms tangled in the sleeves, her hair the only thing visible from the neckhole. The way she had attempted to remove it had pulled up the hem of her plain v-neck tee, and the slightest sliver of midriff was revealed above the waistband of her jeans. Harry turned his eyes back to Draco. 

His cheeks were as flushed as Harry had ever seen them, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes lingered for just a moment on Hermione’s exposed midriff before roving back to the table. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, and his eyes caught Harry’s watching him. Cheeks flushing further, Draco quickly looked down and ran a hand agitatedly through his hair.

Ginny, Alicia and Susan erupted into giggles as Hermione’s muffled cries for help were heard through the sweater, and finally Anthony stood and helped her navigate her way out of the garment, fingers lightly holding the shirt beneath down so it would not pull off as well. When she emerged, her face was red and her hair had escaped from its bun to fall messily around her shoulders. Immediately, her hands found their normal spot on her hips.

“You were all just going to let me suffocate!” she accused. “Anthony is the only proper Auror among you!” She tugged her shirt back over her hips before sitting down, tossing her sweater over the back of her chair. She shook her hair back behind her and combed her fingers through it to smooth it slightly. Harry saw Draco’s adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed.

“Hey, it’s not often we get to see Hermione Granger mess up,” Ginny placated, patting Hermione on the arm. “Throw us a bone.”

At that moment, Draco excused himself to use the loo. Harry, who was sitting next to Hermione, had a genius idea, and sprang over to the chair Draco had vacated under the guise of talking to Anthony about an assignment they’d recently completed together.

From his new vantage point, Harry could see Draco’s return from the loo. Draco stopped suddenly when he saw Harry in his seat, but recovered quickly and slid into the seat next to Hermione as though nothing was amiss. Secondary conversations had broken out amongst the group; Harry and Anthony about work, Ginny, Susan, Alicia and Ron about quidditch. Hermione never cared to discuss quidditch and knew nothing about Harry’s assignment with Anthony, which left her with one option. She was, thanks in part to Harry’s peer pressure, four shots in, and quite the lightweight, which should make it easier - quickly hiding a grin at his success, Harry turned back to Anthony as Hermione began quietly talking to Draco. 

The only flaw in Harry’s brilliant plan was that he couldn’t hear what they were saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you in suspense. I know this is short. I thought about posting the bar scene as one longggggggggggggg chapter, but … the last line was too good of a cliffhanger to pass up on. I promise the next one is long, and I’ll only leave you in suspense for maybe a day or two before posting … “Draco’s Drunken Confession” :):):)


	6. Chapter 5 - Draco's Drunken Confession

April 6, 2001  
The Fountain of Fair Fortune Pub  
08:55 pm

On his way back from the loo, Draco stopped dead as his eyes fell upon the seat he’d just vacated, now filled with the intoxicated Boy-Who-Lived. The only open seat was between Ginny and Hermione. Draco’s brow furrowed slightly as he noticed Harry look away from him quickly, devious grin on his scarred face.

Draco was growing more and more suspicious of Harry’s motives, but he slid in next to Hermione as though he hadn’t even noticed the change in seating, his pulse racing. She was sweaterless thanks to Anthony’s intervention; Draco had fought down the dragons of jealousy writhing in his stomach as he’d watched Anthony’s fingers lightly skate across her stomach, holding her shirt steady. Draco had been mere moments from intervening himself, the opportunity to touch her, to smell her hair, just too perfect for his inebriated self to resist. 

Still, watching had been good too, and definitely safer.

The people around him had broken into smaller groups, each having their own conversations, and Draco fought the rising awkwardness as he observed Hermione silently through his peripheral vision. Her hair was free and wild, her eyes were warm, her cheeks were flushed, and her shirt, he couldn’t fail to notice, revealed the slightest bit of cleavage. Draco thanked every higher power he could think of that his problems down south were being controlled, whether by the firewhiskey or his prior wank, he didn’t know or care. He was shocked out of his thoughts by a quiet voice to his right.

“I think I owe you an apology, Malfoy.”

Hermione was looking entreatingly at him, eyes wide and innocent, no hint of a trick on her face. She smiled shyly, her lips twitching as though she was struggling to hold onto it, and she twisted one of her fingers into a curl, tugging on it nervously. 

“You- you owe _me-_ ” Draco stuttered, unable to help himself. It was more out of nerves than intoxication. Draco was not at all unfamiliar with firewhiskey, having imbibed bottles of the stuff in years past, trying to forget Dumbledore, Hermione, and the things he’d done. He looked at the others, who were thankfully not paying them any attention, Harry included; he was currently involved in a very lively retelling of a quidditch match, gesticulating wildly; as Draco watched, he snatched a passing shot of liquor out of the air as though it were a snitch, showering Anthony with liquid. 

Hermione leaned back in her chair slightly to cross one leg over the other; Draco diligently ignored when her foot brushed his leg, and the way her thighs rubbed together in the jeans he’d correctly guessed she was wearing. He had been too fearful of an errant erection to wear muggle clothing, despite his want to flaunt it in front of her. 

“I haven’t been treating you fairly,” she continued, words slurred but sure. “I - I guess I’ve always assumed you still hated me,” she admitted, already flushed face flushing brighter. “You always seem, I don’t know, _removed,_ somehow. Like it bothers you to speak to me.”

Draco opened his mouth to deny it, his stomach tying into a million painful knots at her words, but his mouth and throat were dry, and his attempt at forming words resulted in a choked sound instead. It _did_ bother him to speak to her, but not in the way she supposed. 

“I’ve been operating under the impression that your prejudices have remained unchanged, and that you’ve learned nothing from your involvement in the war. But Harry had a more interesting theory,” she went on, oblivious to Draco sputtering beside her. Hermione seemed to respond to firewhiskey as she would to straight veritaserum. “He thinks you avoid me because you think it’s what _I_ want. Is that true?”

Draco sat dumbfounded, a myriad of emotions swirling through his head at her words. He could not believe what was happening, and even covertly pinched his thigh to ensure he wasn’t dreaming. Despite his best efforts his jaw was slack as he stared at the witch beside him. How was it possible that even after all he’d done, _she_ was apologizing to _him?_

At least now he knew the reasons behind Harry’s knowing looks, and his shoddy attempts at stealth. Draco had read in _The Quibbler’s_ famous post-war interview with Harry that the Sorting Hat had almost placed him in Slytherin. Internally, Draco scoffed. _He would’ve made a_ terrible _Slytherin._

When Draco refocused his gaze on Hermione, he realized that she was interpreting his silence very incorrectly, and his words stumbled over each other in their attempt to escape his mouth.

“Innit?” he asked, swallowing hard before clarifying, “what you want?” Immediately he wished he could snatch the question back. Even if it was what she wanted, there was no way she’d say it to him, especially now. He felt utterly pathetic; more so than usual. 

“No,” she insisted, shaking her head simultaneously to add emphasis. “I mean, I’m not saying - I just mean -” she stalled, and met his eyes with a small smile, shrugging. “Alright, so historically you’re a bit of a prat, but we’re adults now, and coworkers. I certainly don’t want you isolating yourself on my behalf, and - and all that stuff-” she flapped her hand behind her exaggeratedly. “It doesn’t matter.” Then her brows narrowed, and she glared at him preemptively. “Unless you still believe I’m-”

“No,” he cut her off quickly. “No, I - Granger, I…” he paused, swallowing again. His salivary glands had apparently decided to abandon him altogether, making further speech difficult. He wanted _so badly_ to tell her what he knew; that she had fought for him, saved him, and had never once gloated or angled for credit. That he was sorry; so incredibly sorry that it hurt. That his biggest regrets almost all involved her, or the lack of her. That she was the bravest, smartest, most unique witch he’d ever met. That she had been the one to change _everything._

Instead, he trailed off and looked down at the table, thoroughly humiliated. 

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

It was the simplest of touches, the tiniest of comforting gestures, the minutest of things. But it was more than Draco could have ever wished for. It was as though the world had been rendered in black and white, and with her touch came color. He had not been comforted by anyone but his mother for years, could not recall the last time another human had touched him as though he was a friend; as though he didn’t deserve to experience constant, agonizing guilt. His arm seemed to burn beneath her touch, even through his sleeve, and the fact that he had Hermione Granger consoling him was enough to send his alcohol-tinged blood pounding through his veins so fast, he swore he could feel blood cells bouncing off of each other.

He looked at her. Her expression was reluctant, maybe even sad. She glanced nervously at her hand on his shoulder, as though expecting him to shove it off. The fact that she would think that, and had every right to think that, physically hurt him. There was a such a swelling in his chest he thought his heart might explode. She was willing to forgive him without so much as an attempt at an apology from him. She was willing to forget the hundreds of insults he’d aimed at her, the death threats, the physical injuries. She was ready to move on, even though she was still fearful that he was disgusted by her mere touch on his sleeve.

He quickly placed his own hand over hers before he could think better of it. She inhaled sharply at the touch, and he marvelled at how soft her skin was, how warm, before he gently removed his hand, nearly shivering.

“You owe me nothing, Granger,” he was finally able to reply, and then the words he’d been wanting to say to her for years spilled out of him, aided by alcohol, the ultimate ally of cowards. “I’m the one who's sorry. Sorry for being an arse in school, sorry for the insane beliefs I held, and sorry for all- for..” he trailed off, disgusted, as his voice broke. He attempted to cover it by clearing his throat. Awkwardness rose in his chest, but he ignored it and took a shuddering breath before continuing. “For my actions in the war.” It wasn’t what he’d intended to say, but he’d discovered he wasn’t nearly pissed enough to mention the night at Malfoy Manor. “I’m especially sorry I’ve given you continued reason to believe that I hate you. I don’t.” He let out a bitter chuckle at the words. _Quite the opposite._ “If anything, I hate myself.” 

He cursed the firewhiskey as the piteous words escaped him, and her eyes, to his great surprise, became watery. 

“Oh, Draco,” she whispered, the hand that was still on his shoulder tightening its grip as she turned towards him in her chair, knees scraping along his thigh. His fantasies flared at _the_ words, the ones that had sent him into a downward spiral to begin with, and he was momentarily lost to the world. Fireworks seemed to explode in his vision, and he shifted in his seat, afraid his problem would rear its head - quite literally. She had called him Draco. He pinched his thigh again, so hard he’d bruise. “Don’t say that.”

He guffawed, the sound filled with self-loathing. Again he stared down at the table, unable to meet her eyes. Despite all his narcissism, all the confidence and swagger of his youth, he was tongue-tied and awkward around her. _Pathetic._ When was someone going to order another round? He was in desperate need of more alcohol.

Hermione removed her hand, and it was not until it was gone that Draco realized his skin had been practically vibrating from the contact. She leaned sideways over the table, cocking her head slightly to work her way into his field of vision. She forced him to meet her eyes, still shining with unshed tears. “Malf- I mean Draco,” she corrected with a giggle. Abruptly she dropped the smile and adopted a forced stern expression, before continuing. 

“This is serious business,” she explained her sudden change in expressions, but couldn’t maintain it. Another giggle escaped her. Again, Draco waited for an erection - the most inopportune erection he’d ever have, and given his recent issues, that was certainly saying something - but thankfully felt nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” she told him, embarrassed smile on her face. “I don’t drink often. What I’m _trying_ to say is, I forgive you. I think I did years ago, at least for the parts that weren’t just due to you being an arse.” He acknowledged this with a slight grin, and she continued. “Maybe when Harry saw you in Myrtle’s bathroom…” She stumbled over Myrtle’s name, saying it wrong several times and sticking her tongue out in distaste before finally getting it right, “or on the Astronomy tower. Maybe when we - when you…” she trailed off, eyes widening in horror at the direction her words were taking her. It didn’t matter; Draco knew where she’d been headed, and apparently she wasn’t drunk enough to talk about it, either. 

She cleared her throat before continuing. “I’ve always known your situation was difficult, to say the least.” Another nervous giggle erupted from her, and she wrinkled her nose cutely in response to it. Draco clenched his jaw, again expecting arousal. Certainly she was the most beautiful she’d ever been to him in that moment, and she was close, so close. He desperately tried to ignore her knees rubbing on his thigh with every move she made. “But it means a lot to hear you apologize.” 

She smiled hugely at him, exposing all of her teeth, her eyes crinkling in the corners. She used one hand to throw her hair behind her shoulder as she straightened her posture, and Draco’s proximity meant he was hit full in the face with the wafting scent of her shampoo. He breathed in slowly through his nose, savoring the moment. _Vanilla._

Once again, the literal witch of his dreams had managed to render him speechless. He smiled back at her as a stalling tactic, heart skipping a beat when her eyes warmed in response. She glanced at the others around the table, and he followed suit. He’d almost forgotten there was anyone else there, so enamored with their conversation was he. They were still involved in their own little worlds, all except Ginny, who sat on Draco’s other side and had clearly noticed the moment between him and Hermione. Draco couldn’t bring himself to care. He had apologized, and it had gone better than he would’ve ever expected. She had forgiven him, had possibly done so years ago, and he’d wasted _so_ much time. 

Maybe things were not as bleak as he’d always thought. Maybe they could even have a friendship. It would be painful, but he was already in pain. As long as he didn’t have to watch her waste herself on the Weasel, he could handle being just friends with her. 

“And may I just add,” she told him, pointing a finger at his hair. “This? This is much better.” She used the finger to draw a circle around his head, squinting her eyes as she did so. Half his mouth lifted in a grin, his stomach fluttering in a way that would embarrass him horribly if anyone ever found out about it. 

“My head?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow in a way his mirror found very enchanting. He knew what she meant, but he wanted to hear her say it. He’d abandoned the slicked back style of his youth. Nowadays, he wore his hair styled, but with a much lighter hand, combed over to one side with a bit of volume. It appeared borderline messy and nonchalant, but actually took a good bit of work (and, yes, a tad of Sleakeazy’s). The fact that Hermione appreciated the new style sent a thrill through him. 

She giggled, and his heart soared absurdly at the sound, and the fact that he was responsible for its existence. 

“Your hair!” she clarified, clumsily leaning over and fingering a loose lock above his ear. As she rubbed the strands between her fingers, she whispered, surprised, “It’s so soft. I always assumed with all the product…” His heart began thudding in a hard, irregular rhythm in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. They locked eyes. She was touching his hair, had implied that she’d often wondered about the feel of it. Draco tried to tell himself it was the booze, tried to tell himself to not get his hopes up, that this was fleeting; it would never last. 

But he could not resist the pull of the alcohol, which wanted him to return the compliment. “You look - ah, your hair, I mean... “ he paused, scoffing quietly at his inability to form a sentence. 

“This,” he restarted, drawing a circle around her head like she had his, “is also much better.” But that wasn’t really true. Her hair was largely unchanged. It was only his opinion of it that was different. “Or is it just….” He stopped himself before the firewhiskey revealed too much. She stared for a moment, and then, as if the response had been delayed, blushed magnificently and looked away, twirling one of the fingers that had been in his hair through one of her own curls. She was too damn smart, and had probably worked out what he’d stopped short of saying. Still, the reaction she’d had to the comment was worth the future humiliation, and he was sure Sober Draco would forgive him this misstep. Drunk Draco contemplated whether or not he could get away with touching her hair, as she had his, but his musings were interrupted by Ron bellowing for more booze.

More drinks were levitated over, and the group joined in conversation once again. Hermione turned her knees away from him, and Draco deflated a bit in relief, monumentally shocked that he did not have to do so in more ways than one.

“So, Malfoy. Now that you’re a regular social butterfly, what’s the word on our pick-up quidditch matches? Usually third Sunday of the month. Minerva lets us use the Hogwarts pitch, provided it isn’t booked up. Otherwise we use a pitch over by the Burr- by my parent’s house.” Ginny passed drinks over to Hermione and Draco as she awaited his answer. 

“Yeah, Draco, we’re in need of another seeker,” Anthony added. “No one can beat Harry.”

“Hey!” Alicia cried. “I gave him a run for his-”

“Yeah, but you’re a chaser at heart, love. Not your fault.” Ron attempted to pat her arm sympathetically, and almost fell out of his chair in the process. “It takes a certain… a certain jenna-say-kah.”

“A what?” Hermione laughed, raising her eyebrows at Ron.

“A jenna.. A jenna-za-qua?” Ron slurred, screwing his face up in concentration. He probably didn’t know the French phrase to begin with, and the firewhiskey made the pronunciation much worse. 

“Je ne sais quoi,” Draco and Hermione chorused simultaneously, flawlessly. They exchanged a glance afterward. Draco decided he could get used to this; he could get used to shared glances and flirtatious quips. He could get used to making her laugh. Even if nothing came of it, at least he’d have moments of happiness scattered throughout his otherwise lackluster existence. 

“Oh, great. Another know-it-all in the group. Now we know why Hermione invited him.” Ginny took up her shot and toasted, “To know-it-alls!” 

“To know-it-alls!” The group said, Hermione loudest of all; she sloshed a bit of her drink onto the table with her enthusiasm. Draco thought of all the times he’d made fun of her for it; of all the times Snape had insulted her, and he’d laughed along; and now here he was, being called a know-it-all himself. The irony would rankle him if it were in any other context.   
After slamming the shots, the group fell into easy conversation. Draco joined in where he could, keeping his comments neutral and his tone light. Ginny managed to convince him to agree to their next quidditch match, and the men made drunken bets on who would catch the snitch first. Draco, of course, bet on himself, despite Harry’s undefeated record against him. He still had at least a smidgen of pride, and flying was one of the few activities he’d maintained steady interest in after the war. 

When it came time to leave, Draco insisted on paying, though it didn’t take much convincing. 

“We should invite him more often,” said Ron, and it was clear from his words - both the way they were delivered and the content they contained - that he was terribly sloshed. He was leaning onto the table, head resting on his arm. 

“C’mon, mate, let’s get you home,” Harry soothed, slapping Ron on the back. “You’re far too gone to apparate.”

“Bye, Draco.” Hermione smiled at him as she donned her sweater again. “I’m really glad you came.” Draco was keenly aware of all of his senses as he watched her stumble her way over to Harry, helping him balance the inebriated Weasley between them. 

Before he could respond, before he could finally call her by her first name, and thank her and Harry for the invite, a booming voice shouted, “NO WAY! THE GOLDEN TRIO!?”

As the three were bombarded with requests for autographs, Draco quietly took his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read and revised this so many times that I'm sick of it; hope you all enjoy!


	7. Chapter 6 - Harry's Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm losing creativity with the chapter names here. Also, my pace has considerably slowed. I warned this might happen. xD ALSO, just an FYI, the past chapters have been written for months, maybe even years, and re-read and edited a billion times. The future chapters are much newer and therefore less edited.

April 7, 2001  
12 Grimmauld Place  
07:23 am

Harry awoke with a start as something heavy crashed down on his legs. Immediately, he began fumbling for his wand and squinting through the darkness, until he recognized the source of the disruption by the volume of her hair. He felt Ginny rousing beside him. 

“Harrrryyyyy,” Hermione groaned, her body sprawled across the bed and the previously slumbering couple. “Ginnnyyyyyy. Why’d you let me drink so much?”

Ginny, who was always shockingly unaffected by alcohol the next day, sat up quickly. “You know there’s no stopping you if you want something.”

Hermione groaned again. “Uggh. You made me go, Harry. I blame you.”

Harry groggily rubbed at his eyes and put on his glasses. Hermione always woke up at ungodly hours when she was hungover, and if he was unlucky enough to have allowed her to crash at his place, she almost always woke him with some question or another. This time, however, he was happy she had. 

“Well since you’re awake,” he said eagerly, leaning down to grab his discarded tee and don it, “you can tell us what happened with Malfoy.”

“Yes!” Ginny chorused, ecstatic. “There was _definitely_ something going on between you two.” She met Harry’s eyes, just as excited as he was to hear the tale. She was constantly pressing Harry for new developments on his investigation into Draco’s feelings, and seemed to think he’d make a perfect match for Hermione. Ginny, while quick to anger (and to hex), was also surprisingly quick to forgive, which was one of the things Harry loved about her. 

Hermione placed two fingers over each eye and rubbed at them tiredly. “Again, why’d you let me drink so much.” This time it was cadenced as a sentence, not a question. “I- Merlin, I started apologizing to him.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry interrupted with a surprised laugh. “You apologized to _him_? What for?” 

Hermione moved her fingers to her temples, rubbing slowly. “That’s your fault as well. I couldn’t get your stupid theory out of my head, that he avoided me for my sake, and I couldn’t stand the idea that he was avoiding social events for my comfort. So I tried to apologize. I mean, I haven’t exactly made it easy on him, have I? 

“Then I…” she trailed off, screwing her eyes shut as she tried to remember clearly. “He stopped me. He said I owed him nothing, and he apologized instead.”

“ _He_ apologized?” Ginny was astounded, her eyes wide as saucers. Harry wished his girlfriend had had the foresight to listen more carefully to the conversation going on beside her, so he could press her for exact details. Maybe if he reviewed the memory in his pensieve... although perhaps that was a bit too obsessive. 

“Yes. For school, his beliefs, and the war.” She ticked the items off on one hand. “Oh, Godric. If I hadn’t been drunk, it would’ve been incredibly awkward.”

“Thank Merlin for firewhiskey,” Harry put in, wicked grin on his face. He knew Hermione, and he had known that plying her with firewhiskey would lead her down the path of pleasant conversation with Malfoy, even without the theory he’d incepted into her head. She was a happy, embarrassingly honest drunk. Ginny looked at him through the corner of her eye and mouthed ‘dial it down.’

“I think I started tearing up,” Hermione announced, throwing her head back in dismay. “Tearing up! He apologized to me, and I teared up. How am I supposed to face him again?!”

“Why’d you tear up?” Ginny asked with a snort of laughter. “You know, apart from the four shots of firewhiskey.”

Harry watched as Hermione’s expression softened in the low morning light, and felt a swoop of triumph in his gut. “He said he hated himself. More than that, it was just - I don’t know, the apology, the alcohol, the expression on his face. The fact that I helped him escape Azkaban only to lock him in a prison of my own making.” She rolled to her side, propped up on an elbow and looked at Harry. “You know I hate saying it, but you were right.”

Harry’s grin threatened to wrap around his skull, it was so wide. There was something astoundingly pleasurable about hearing Hermione tell him he was right. It didn’t happen often. 

“And then what happened?” Ginny pressed, crossing her legs so they were no longer beneath Hermione’s weight.

Hermione blushed fiercely, and said evasively, “I don’t really remember, didn’t you bring up the quidditch?”

Ginny adopted a condescending tone. “Hermione, I was sitting on the other side of him, you know.” She gave Hermione one more chance to answer; when Hermione remained silent, Ginny added, “Okay, I’ll say it. You were _totally_ flirting with him.”

Hermione pushed herself off of the bed, which was a good thing, as Harry’s legs were beginning to tingle beneath her sprawled body. “I was not!” she denied petulantly. When Ginny arched a brow at her, she continued, “It was the firewhiskey!” She pointed an accusing finger at Harry. “You _insisted_ I keep drinking.” He had really only insisted on the first two drinks, but he would be her scapegoat if that’s what she needed.

Harry and Ginny exchanged a quick glance, the former still grinning maniacally. “We thought it would make it easier to talk to Malfoy!” He defended himself, still unwilling to reveal to Hermione that Draco was obviously painfully enamored with her. Harry no longer harbored any doubts regarding that, and if the pair continued on the way they had last night, soon everyone else would know as well. 

“So I saw the hand on his arm, and the fingers _in his hair,_ ” Ginny said, sliding out of bed. She was clad only in her undergarments, and Hermione trained her eyes on the ceiling, used to Ginny’s lack of modesty. “But I didn’t hear the words that accompanied those actions.” Ginny pulled on a set of Harry’s muggle pyjamas as she spoke.

At that moment, Ron barged into the room, his walk revealing the fact that he was still feeling the residual effects of the firewhiskey he’d imbibed. Ron always took drinking a bit too far, relying a little too heavily on hangover potions, which weren’t without their own downsides.

“How _dare_ you convene a friendship meeting without me,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, blissfully unaware of how close he’d come to seeing his sister in her lingerie. 

“We were just discussing Hermione flirting with Malfoy,” Ginny told him in a tone that indicated they’d all known better than to include him in the conversation as she plopped cross-legged onto the floor, where Hermione joined her.

“Flirting with _Malfoy?_ ” Ron cried, disgusted. “I don’t recall this.”

“Yes, well, I’m surprised you recall anything with how much you drank last night,” Hermione snapped peevishly. “Must we continue this interrogation?”

“Yes,” Harry and Ginny responded, drowning out Ron’s adamant ‘no.’ “You were getting to the hand on his arm.”

Hermione gave an annoyed flick of her hair and a scoff before saying, “He was clearly distraught, so there’s that, but I suppose it was also a sort of test. See if he was still disgusted at the idea of my touch.” She shrugged. “Apparently he was not. He put his hand over mine. It was…” she trailed off, giving Ron a somewhat worried look. 

“And the hair?” Harry prompted, letting her get away with not finishing her sentence, given her ex-boyfriend’s untimely entrance. 

In answer, she began tugging on one of her curls agitatedly. She’d developed this habit recently, perhaps in an attempt to stop chewing her nails. She looked at Ginny appealingly. “I’m sure I’m correct in assuming I’m not the only female who ever wondered about the feel of the infamous Malfoy hair?” 

Ginny nodded unabashedly, to Harry’s slight dismay. “Those platinum locks were the center of many discussions in the girl’s dormitories. I get it. But my question was, what were the _words_ you exchanged? What led to you massaging his hair?”

Ron, who had been quiet since his arrival, burst out, “Merlin, Hermione, massaging his hair? How did we get from… from calling him a snake in the breakroom to massaging his hair?”

He had missed the whole apology discussion; Harry filled him in impatiently. 

“The prat said all that, eh?” Ron asked, looking a mixture of disbelieving and impressed. “Still haven’t seen an apology thrown _my_ way, but then again I haven’t got a nice set of quaffles.” He gestured at Hermione’s chest. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “The apology was not based on my _quaffles,_ thank you, Ronald. It’s pretty obvious to me now that he’s felt guilty for months, possibly longer, and has been scared to apologize. I’m far less intimidating than you.” Harry was not sure Draco felt that way. “And he was drinking, too. I’m sure that helped.”

“Stop interrupting, Ron!” Ginny cried, punching his leg. “Hermione, stop avoiding my question! How did you end up with your fingers in Malfoy’s hair?”

Hermione’s blush renewed. “I, um, complimented it. You know, the new style.” She shrugged. “And I was so _inebriated,_ ” she shot Harry an angry glance “that it just happened.” 

“And he didn’t shove you away,” Ginny pointed out. “He didn’t snap at you. I remember at the Yule Ball, I saw that pug Parkinson try to touch his hair while they were dancing, and he shook her off instantly.” Again, Ginny glanced at Harry, and Harry smiled at her, encouraging her with his eyes. _Yes, love, yes!_ She was a great partner in matchmaking.

Hermione looked contemplatively at Ginny. “Well, I suppose he’s a lot different now, isn’t he?” Her cheeks brightened as she added, “I mean, he even returned the compliment.” Her finger now threatened to tug out the curl she’d wrapped around it. 

Harry could not be happier with all that had transpired at the pub; in fact he was blown away by how well it had gone. He could feel Ginny radiating happiness as well. Ron was acting rather sulky, but that was to be expected - he’d probably hated Draco the most of the trio, with good reason, and unlike his sister, tended to hold onto his grudges fiercely.

“Am I supposed to pretend to be happy about this?” Ron asked, throwing up his hands in disbelief. “This is _Malfoy_ we’re talking about - the ferret, the one who tormented us, the one who broke Harry’s nose, worked for Umbridge, and, oh, I almost forgot - _tried to turn Harry over to Voldemort._ ”

Hermione stood then, and towered over the sitting Weasley. “We had this argument before his trial and I’m just as adamant now as I was then. I said there was something good in him, and look! I was right. _Dumbledore_ was right. He died to give Malfoy a chance at a better life, at redemption. And you should have seen him, Ron! This is not the ferret we knew at Hogwarts. He’s sorry, and I for one believe in second chances. ”

Ron looked thoroughly chastened, but still foolishly defended his position. “Second chances are all well and good, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got to jump right to shagging-”

Hermione had reached a point of rage so intense that it rendered her temporarily speechless. She stood silent, mouth opening and closing like a grindylow out of water. Ron seized the opportunity and attempted to rally Harry to his side. 

“You’re okay with this?” he asked angrily. “You’re… and she… and _we_ …” Ron had begun pacing the room, gesturing violently as he started sentences only he knew the endings to.

“C’mon, mate,” Harry placated, sitting up and throwing his legs over the side of the bed. “He’s not so bad anymore. Anyway, remember my dad? He was a right prat in school, my mum hated him, but he came around eventually.” 

Ron seemed not to have heard this. “Do we just forget the countless insults? The attempts to get us expelled? The... “ Ron’s face was nearing purple territory he was so full of rage. “You go from me to _him?_ ” He turned back to Hermione. “How am I supposed to take that?”

“First of all,” Hermione cried, springing up from the floor, “I am not going from _you to him._ I went from you to Terry Boot, and- and you know the rest. Second of all, when did anyone say anything about Malfoy and I shacking up? I believe all I said was that he apologized, and that the amount of firewhiskey Harry practically poured down my throat made me flirt with him a bit! It was harmless. It’s not like he’d actually be interested-”

Harry and Ginny shot each other a look behind Hermione’s back.

“Of course he’d be interested!” Ron bellowed. “Why wouldn’t he be!” Harry thanked Merlin Ron had not gone with the approach he’d utilized when asking Hermione to the Yule Ball, expressing disbelief that anyone would be interested enough to ask her. 

“I’m not exactly his type, am I, Ronald?” she threw back condescendingly. “Do you recall Pansy Parkinson?” 

“Actually…” Harry attempted, but his quiet interruption was drowned out.

“So what?” Ron yelled, throwing up his arms. “If he’s so different, maybe his tastes have changed too! Maybe he wants to add a muggleborn to his-”

“I can’t believe you think I’d just jump into bed with-”

“-ulterior motive, you _know_ Malfoy, people can’t change who they are at their core-”

“-think I’m smart enough to detect…”

“-watched as you were tortured-”

“-not like I just… you KNOW he couldn’t do anything, I’ve told you, and if I can forgive him for that, certainly _you_ …”

“-probably trying to use you to restore the Malfoy name, or…”

“-so first he’s _interested_ , now he’s just _using_ …”

“STOP IT, YOU TWO!” Ginny roared, stunning the dueling pair into silence. Her timing was perfect, as Hermione’s hair was crackling with rage. “Ron, if Hermione _is_ interested in Malfoy, that’s her business. I get why you’re upset, but honestly, it’s been years. He was a teenager, look who he had for parents-”

“Look who Harry was raised by-”

“Yes, but they shunned him, Ronald! Look at Dudley! If he’s not a - a fat, muggle Malfoy, I don’t know who is!” Hermione cut in. Harry suppressed a snort at the comparison. “You were plenty keen on him when he was funding your alcoholism last night!”

“I - I was pissed!” Ron cried, ears red. “I don’t even-”

“So was I!” Hermione shot back.

“Ron!” Harry said exasperatedly. “Hermione, really, can we just… seriously, this is stupid.” Hermione pointed to Harry as though this statement proved everything she’d said. “I know he can be a prat, Ron, but no one’s asking you to be his best mate.”

“No,” Ron grumbled, calming slightly. “You’re just asking me to stay quiet while he hangs around Hermione and snakes his way into-”

“I. Am. Not. His. Type.” Hermione said again, punctuating with pauses. 

“So if you were, you’re saying-” Ginny cut Ron off with a glare.

“And about that…” Harry tried again, pausing for a moment to make sure he wouldn’t be shouted over. “I don’t think he’s into the Parkinson type anymore. Right, Ginny? I mean, the articles you’ve shown me from _Witch Weekly_ …” he prompted. She seized on this train of thought, thankfully not forcing him to admit that it had been he who had pored over the pages of the tabloid for any mention of Draco Malfoy. 

“That’s true, Hermione. The women he’s been seen with since the war - they, well ..” Ginny glanced at Harry, who nodded slightly. This was a dangerous path to go down, especially with Ron there, but sod it, they had to seize the opportunity while they could. “They actually look a lot like you. The hair, at least. And only one of them was a Pureblood.”

“Oh, that’s great…” Ron muttered, once again throwing up his hands helplessly. 

“I don’t - that’s not-” Hermione stuttered with a stunned expression. “And anyway, even if I was his… even if he _did_ …like I said, it was the firewhiskey. He apologized, fine. We can be amiable coworkers. We can have pleasant conversations when he comes out with us. That’s all. I swear I’m never drinking again.” She muttered the last sentence almost to herself, but the look on her face revealed she was thinking hard.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, Hermione,” Ron mumbled, not meeting her eyes. Harry knew there was a probably a bit more to it than that; Ron and Hermione hadn’t exactly ended amicably. Even if he didn’t have residual feelings for her, Ron had been notoriously against all of Ginny’s prior boyfriends, simply because he was her sister - so perhaps it was a brotherly type of protection Ron was feeling. 

Hermione visibly deflated, as did her hair, it seemed, and Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. “I appreciate that, Ron, I do. But I can take care of myself, and besides, you know my plan is to focus on my career. You have nothing to worry about.”

Ron gave a slight smile at this. “Well, I suppose if he’s going to keep paying for my drinks, I can stomach him.”

“Good,” said Ginny, slapping Ron hard on the back, “because he’s coming to our next quidditch game, and if you don’t recall, you put quite a substantial bet on Harry to catch the snitch.” 

Ron looked at Harry with slight panic. “You better pull it off, then.” 

Harry grinned. He had never lost to Draco before, and he had no plans to start now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to all who have read and reviewed. Even a short review makes my day :)


	8. Chapter 7 - Draco's Morning Musings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple quick things. One: I don't know what the 'official' definition of a slow burn is, but I think this is starting to qualify. I'm torturing even myself here, people. Two: I had a stroke of inspiration last week, and I have about ~5-6 more chapters written or at the very least started, so I should be updating fairly regularly for the foreseeable future. I work night shifts, 7 on/7 off, so I'll try and update during each week on. (Ironically, I usually have more time to write during a slow night shift than I do during my weeks off). Three: I'm so glad people seemed to enjoy the last chapter, as I struggle writing non-Dramione scenes. BTW, I feel I should make it clear that I am a Ron lover. Alright, enjoy Draco's Morning Musings!

April 7, 2001  
Draco Malfoy’s flat  
08:15 am

When Draco woke up, he was hungover, exhausted, and haggard, but happier than he had been in years.

Despite the doubts that milled around the back of his mind, he could not stop the silly grin that spread across his face as he recalled the events of the night prior. 

_It means a lot to hear you apologize._ The tears in her eyes; her hand on his arm, which he still felt as though it were branded there. 

_This? This is much better._ The way her nose had wrinkled as she’d squinted her eyes; her fingers in his hair; her enchanting blush when he’d turned the compliment around. 

_Bye, Draco. I’m really glad you came._ The genuine smile on her face; the way she purred his first name.

Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. As he bustled around his flat, hurriedly preparing for breakfast with his mother, Hermione’s words rang through his ears repeatedly. When he looked in the mirror to style his hair, it chirped, “Now _that’s_ a smile!”

He downed a large mug of coffee in a meager attempt to relieve his hangover. It was mild, but still bothersome, and his mother could almost always tell if he’d indulged. He’d developed a resistance to hangover potions due to his near constant use of them in the time after his trial. 

With a final cocky grin at his mirror, which whistled in reply, he turned on the spot and apparated into the Manor.

“Draco, darling,” his mother greeted when he walked into the dining hall. “You’re late, and you-” she stopped dead when she looked up at him. 

“What?” Draco asked, mildly alarmed at the expression on her face. “What is it?”

Narcissa stood and walked over, circling him with a searching look in her eyes. “You’re smiling!” she finally exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. “Oh, Draco! Who is she?”

Leave it to his mother to assume that only a woman would make him smile; nevermind the fact that she was right.

“It’s nothing, mother,” he said dismissively, dropping the smile and shaking her off of him, taking a seat at the elegant dining table.

“Don’t lie to me,” Narcissa scoffed, seating herself on the opposite end and pouring a cup of tea, primly stirring in a bit of milk. “I haven’t seen you smile properly in months.” That had been when he’d completed the capture of Mulciber, one of the oldest and cruellest Death Eaters. After the Battle of Hogwarts, Mulciber, along with a score of other Death Eaters, had evaded capture. The anti-apparition wards around Hogwarts had been broken, so reigning in the guilty had been nearly impossible. Capturing Mulciber had been Draco’s longest and most difficult assignment; it had taken him months to pinpoint the Death Eater’s hideout, and the inevitable duel had landed him in St. Mungo’s for a fortnight. When he’d returned to work, there had been a celebration, and despite Draco’s attempt to remain above it all, he had been deliriously happy that day, especially when Hermione had tentatively smiled at him and congratulated his effort. 

Despite himself, the silly grin was creeping back onto his face. “I simply had an enjoyable night,” he explained as he loaded his plate with the greasiest fare he could find.

Again, Narcissa surveyed him with narrowed eyes. “You’re hungover,” she observed calmly.

Draco nodded, damning his mother’s sharp eye.

“And you’re smiling like a loon,” she continued. 

Draco shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, which was hard with his lips fighting his attempts at a neutral expression. 

“And you expect me to believe there was no woman involved?” With a flick of her wand she set a knife to quartering a grapefruit. “I’m not a fool, darling.”

Draco attempted to drop his grin again, but it was like his lips had minds of their own. He couldn’t control it, and sod it; his mother had been trying for months to set him up with someone, no longer caring if that person was a Pureblood, and he might as well throw her a bone.

“There may have been a woman…” he told her, flashing a sly look as he took a bite of sausage. His mother did not play games, however, and she simply raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. “Alright, fine. It was Hermione Granger.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened slightly at the name. She recognized it, of course. Narcissa would know Hermione Granger even if she hadn’t encouraged Harry to testify on Draco’s behalf. Narcissa had wanted to thank her, the way she’d thanked Harry, but Draco had expressly forbidden it. His mother also knew that he was stuck on Hermione, but did not know the true depths of insanity to which his obsession sank, nor the problems it was causing with his member. 

“And?” she prompted, keeping her tone and expression neutral. His mother had an excellent poker face; how else could she have convinced Voldemort that Harry was dead when he wasn’t? She had told him she no longer cared about the lineage of his chosen mate as long as he was happy; Draco believed this for the most part, though he suspected she may be hiding residual prejudices that would flare up if and when his father was ever released from Azkaban, which was highly unlikely. 

“And… nothing.” Draco shrugged. “Nothing happened, it was just…” he trailed off.

“Did you tell her that you know?” Narcissa asked after chewing a wedge of grapefruit slowly and carefully. “About your trial?”

“Of course not,” Draco replied somewhat tersely. He didn’t like the reminder that there was something unspoken between he and Hermione, something that would certainly cause issue if they were to continue their new... friendship. He supposed that was the best word for it. 

They were silent for a while as they ate. Draco turned down further coffee from his mother’s house elf, Tilly - he was beginning to regret having chugged his first cup.

“Are you going to make me beg you to tell me what happened?” his mother finally asked with an annoyed bite. 

“I told you, nothing,” he snapped, starting to feel sick to his stomach. The massive amount of coffee wasn’t helping, but it wasn’t the cause - the doubts he’d managed to push to the back of his mind at first were starting to rear their ugly heads at his mother’s questioning.

“There had to have been _something_ , the way you were grinning.” Narcissa took a dainty sip of tea and stared him down over the rim of her cup as she waited for his response.

Hermione had been drunk; there was no getting around it. Friday afternoon she had been cold and aloof towards him, and Friday night she had turned warm and friendly. The only thing that had changed between those two encounters had been her blood alcohol level. Sure, Harry had guilted her, had told her that Draco isolated himself on her behalf - but what did that mean, really? She was well known as being a crusader for the less fortunate. To Hermione, who was almost always surrounded by friends, by love, certainly a solitary Draco was considered _less fortunate._

_It means a lot to hear you apologize._ The tears in her eyes, now tainted; he was sure she had cried over the plight of the house elves before. It was nothing more than pity. Her hand on his arm, perhaps an inebriated attempt to discern if he was telling the truth about his changing beliefs? He certainly would have shoved her off in the past. 

_This? This is much better._ The firewhiskey had made her flirtatious, and Draco had simply been the easiest target for her wiles. Had Anthony been nearer, she probably would have turned to him instead of Draco. In fact, with how easily he’d touched her midriff, Draco wouldn’t be surprised if Anthony and Hermione were already working toward something. 

_Bye, Draco. I’m really glad you came._ Try as he might he couldn’t taint this particular moment with his doubts, except to again note that she was intoxicated. He would bet a thousand galleons the next time he saw her, he’d be ‘Malfoy’ again.

He groaned and rested his head in his hand, rubbing at his forehead. A headache was forming as the want to be happy about the night warred with his ever present self-loathing and doubt.

“Draco, talk to me,” his mother appealed, walking around the table and placing a hand on his shoulder. The same shoulder on which Hermione had placed her hand. Draco involuntarily shivered, and shrugged away from his mother.

“She invited me out with the other Aurors,” Draco muttered, looking down at the table. “Technically it was Potter, I suppose. I decided to go. I enjoyed myself.” Draco shrugged, slightly embarrassed to admit it, even though he was talking to his own mother. “We drank a bit, and… and Granger and I got to talking.” 

His mother moved behind him and began combing his hair over one ear, the way she used to when he was distraught as a child. The gentle movements of her hand calmed him slightly. 

“I ended up apologizing to her.” His mother knew what he needed to apologize for, so he did not elaborate. “She took it very well. There was a bit of flirting. When we left, she told me she was happy I’d come. She called me Draco.” His stomach clenched painfully as he relived it out loud. 

“That all sounds wonderful, darling,” Narcissa said, sounding somewhat confused.

“It was wonderful,” Draco muttered, closing his eyes. “That’s the problem.”

“I don’t-”

“She was drunk, mum. She could barely walk. I’m not even confident she’ll remember anything that happened.”

Narcissa’s fingers stilled behind his ear. “I’m sure she’ll-”

“And even if she does,” Draco interrupted, turning his head sharply so that his mother’s fingers lost their hold there, “I’m sure she’ll be embarrassed. That’s not how she would’ve acted if she were sober.”

“You don’t know that, Draco,” Narcissa said, pulling out the chair next to him and sitting, grasping one of his hands in her own. “Don’t jump to conclus-”

“And even if she’s _not_ embarrassed,” Draco pressed on, pulling his hand from his mother’s, “I was foolish to have gone. I was happy - alright, not _happy_ , but I was fine. Fine with knowing I’d - she’d -” He stood, running a hand through his hair in dismay. “But now I’ve had a taste of what it’s like, what it’s like to make her laugh, to see her smile at me, to - to hear her say my name…” He paced back and forth, so angry with himself he could barely contain a scream of anguish. “ _Why_ did I do it?” 

Even if Hermione remembered, and wasn’t embarrassed, and acted the exact same to him sober as she had while drunk - all of which were very unlikely - he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to have the Golden Girl, the brightest witch of the age, the model muggleborn of wizarding society. He’d done too many horrible things, to her and to others, for him to have her. Draco had never necessarily cared if he deserved something before or not; he was selfish. He had no delusions about the strength of his character, and he’d take her in an instant if he had the chance, but he was fairly certain whatever higher power might exist would not allow it. If that was the case, then he had made things even harder on himself. 

He should never have gone out with the aurors, he should have maintained his isolation, he should have lived in ignorance of just exactly what he was missing. He had thought he could handle being friends with her, but could he? Could he repress his fantasies, his damnable dick? Could he go out with her, have drinks with her, and keep it platonic? Could he wrap his arm around her shoulder, the way Ron had done last night, and not think about what it would be like to take it further? Could he watch her date other men, offer relationship advice, perhaps even one day attend her wedding? The mere thought made coffee bubble hotly into his esophagus. 

Narcissa was wringing her hands together now, looking at her son anxiously. “You haven’t even seen her yet. Why don’t you just wait until Monday and say hello at the office?”

Draco stopped pacing, trying to calm the racing of his heart. Hermione was too nice to outright ignore him after what had happened, after he had apologized. At the very least she would start acknowledging him at work; they would be able to complete assignments together instead of apart, provided he could control his phallus; he would go out with the group on occasion, where, he vainly hoped, Hermione would perhaps imbibe enough to make her smile at him again. Then there was the quidditch match he’d agreed to attend; a daydream of Hermione jumping up and down, clapping, as he landed with the snitch wriggling in his fist, temporarily distracted him. 

“You apologized. I’ve told you for months that if you _just_ apologized, she’d start warming up to you.”

Draco nodded absently. He’d already explained to his mother countless times that he was trying to leave Hermione in peace, which was what Harry had asked of him. It was the least he could do in repayment of the multiple debts he owed the Boy-Who-Lived - and he could add one more to the list now, the bloody invite to the pub. He couldn’t explain what had come over him in the Atrium yesterday, what had made him tease her, what had made him agree to go out. It was turning out to be both the best and worst decision he’d ever made. He hadn’t been this stuck in his head since immediately following his trial. 

“I’m sure once you see her again, you’ll realize that things aren’t as bad as you suppose.” Narcissa once again placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, and he let it stay there this time. 

There wasn’t much he could do except hope she was right.


	9. Chapter 8 - Harry's Recruits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short Harry chapter today, longer Draco chapter (hopefully) tomorrow.

**Chapter 8 - Harry’s Recruits**  
April 9, 2001  
Ministry of Magic  
Department of Magical Law Enforcement  
Auror Headquarters  
09:00 am

“I thought it was dagaz at first, but look, this is dagaz, so it can’t be -”

“Hermione,” Harry said exasperatedly. “I didn’t even take ancient runes. Go ask… I dunno, Malfoy or something.” He tried to act as though the name was plucked from the air at random, but she gave him a withering look.

“Stop it, Harry.”

“I just think,” he said, trying for the fifth time that day, “that if you ignore him now, he’s only going to get worse. You know, he’ll think it was the booze talking, or something.”

Hermione smiled at Alicia as she walked by, and then turned her attention back to Harry. She was sitting on his desk, a page of scribbled ancient runes clutched at her side. “I’m not ignoring him. He hasn’t tried to speak to me. If he does, I will certainly reciprocate.” She pushed herself off his desk with a sigh. “Alright, I don’t know why I even bothered asking you about this, I should _know_ it…”

“Lunch later?” Harry asked, inclining his head toward his desk. He had a meeting with Hestia soon, and had to make sure he was prepared. 

“Cafeteria at noon?” she asked, and he nodded before she left for her own desk. “Good luck,” she called over her shoulder.

Harry knew that Hermione was nervous to face Draco sober, and apparently Draco was just as nervous, as he had entered the offices the back way to avoid Hermione’s desk, or so Harry assumed. Harry had greeted the blond, who reacted with a quickly masked expression of surprise and a stiff hello, but Hermione had not yet interacted with him - which was probably purposeful on both their parts.

He shook his head slightly. He couldn’t let his matchmaking attempts interfere with his career, and ever since leaving early on Friday he hadn’t spared a thought for work. 

After an hour or so of intense focus, Harry knocked his stack of parchment against his desktop to level it, and walked into Hestia Jones’ office. Hestia was the department head, and she was training Harry to be her direct inferior, with plans to transition him to head once she retired in a few years time. As such, he was becoming more involved with doling out assignments, monitoring the results of them, and other, more tedious duties, such as dealing with the press or disciplinary actions against employees. Harry loved being in the field and insisted on continuing these duties, but he did have to familiarize himself with the less desirable aspects of the position. 

For about half an hour, Hestia drilled Harry with questions about the ongoing assignments in the department. As future head, he was expected to know the details regarding all of the cases, not just his own. He gave updates on the known whereabouts of at large Death Eaters, a task that was considered a group effort, though many of the more senior Aurors were the frontrunners for the hunt; he informed her of the progress on Hermione’s rune translations, briefly went over Ron and Anthony’s current status - they were in the field trying to locate an underground illegal potions brewing ring - and rattled on about various other things, including Draco’s delayed paperwork, which was an almost constant thorn in Harry’s side, though he had momentarily forgotten about it given the happenings of the past week. Draco’s work was always done well, but the documentation of said work seemed of little consequence to him. Truly, it wasn’t of much consequence to Harry, either, but he got away with it more easily. 

Once Hestia was satisfied that he’d reported all he knew, they moved on to the task of doling out a new assignment. Harry consulted the office’s window, which had pictures of each Auror on it as well as notes regarding what they were currently working on. Beneath Draco’s name was a large, flashing word: PAPERWORK.

“I’ve allotted a month’s turnaround on this particular assignment - a bit of field work, a bit of office work,” Hestia said, placing the summary in front of Harry. He read it quickly, knowing before he even finished whom he was going to recommend for it. It was fairly simple in the scheme of things - sorting out real dark objects from fake ones, avoiding and breaking curses along the way - but it did require a certain skill set. These types of cases were best suited to those who excelled at charms, runes, and curse breaking; those who were keen on puzzles; and knowledge of how Death Eaters preferred to store their dark artefacts couldn’t hurt. 

Harry once again glanced at the window, as though he didn’t already know who he was considering, and then said, “Looks like Malfoy and Hermione are the least loaded up right now, and I think they’d handle it well.”

Hestia raised her eyebrows at him. “You have previously informed me that Malfoy does not work well with others, especially you or your friends.” It hadn’t stopped them from being assigned together previously, but those assignments had not included field work.

Harry grinned a bit. “Yes, well, things may have changed over the weekend.” He went into a brief description of the outing to the pub, giving out only the details that were necessary for his boss to believe him. “Anyway, I believe they can work together now.” Seeming convinced, Hestia allowed Harry to charm the new assignment beneath Draco and Hermione’s pictures, and he left the office feeling jubilant that he’d accomplished something helpful not only to his actual job, but to his self appointed task of matchmaking.

When Harry informed Hermione of the assignment at lunch, she was at first a bit miffed at him, but once he explained, untruthfully, that Hestia had expressed great excitement at having ‘two of her best’ working together, she seemed placated enough. He told himself it was only a white lie; Hestia had at least inferred something similar in past meetings. Hermione began drilling him for the details of the assignment, and while she was rambling on about proposed strategies, Harry saw Draco with a tray of food in his hands. He spotted the pair, and immediately turned on his heel, taking off in the opposite direction. Before he could get too far, Harry called, “Oy, Malfoy!”

Hermione, startled, turned over her shoulder and noticed the blond, and kicked Harry beneath the table. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “Why did you-”

“I’ve got to tell him about the assignment, haven’t I?” Harry hissed back, waving Draco over when he turned, looking hesitant. “Besides, he can eat lunch with you, I’ve got to - hey, Malfoy.”

Hermione looked ready to jinx his head off, but she screwed her annoyed look into a smile.

“Potter,” Draco nodded. “Granger.”

Hermione’s smile twitched slightly. “Malfoy,” she acknowledged, before dipping her head back down to the description of their assignment as though she hadn’t already read it thrice.

“Perfect timing. You two’ve got a new assignment together - Hermione’s got all the details - and I’ve just remembered, I’ve got to go, uh, you know - to a meeting with.. Arthur Weasley.” Harry stood and waved his wand over his food, transfiguring the tray beneath into a to-go container. “So you can keep her company and discuss your strategy going forward.”

Hermione gave Harry a death glare, but he was skilled at ignoring these looks. “Harry, I’m sure you’re confused. You told me that meeting was on Wednesday.” 

Harry was momentarily stymied by his friend’s quick retort. “I did say that,” he confirmed, “but Arthur sent me a memo earlier and asked that I come today.” Hermione was clearly not happy with him leaving, but her stubbornness was getting a bit old, and she would have to interact with Draco sober at some point in time. 

Draco narrowed his eyes, obviously suspicious, but set his tray down at the table, albeit a bit reluctantly.

“Great,” Harry said. “I’ll see you later, Hermione. Oh, and Malfoy. Do me a favor and get some damn paperwork done.”

Harry waved and left the cafeteria, thinking he was lucky to have Ginny, as surely anyone else would tell him to stop spending so much time on Hermione’s relationships and start focusing on his own. Thankfully, he had an idea on that front.


	10. Chapter 9 - Draco's N.E.W.T.s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note my thievery from Cursed Child (marked with a *). I actually hate Cursed Child but I do like that Draco got some redemption in it. Thanks again for all the reviews, follows, etc. Enjoy!

Chapter 9 - Draco’s N.E.W.T.s  
April 9, 2001  
Ministry of Magic  
Department of Magical Law Enforcement  
Auror Headquarters  
09:00 am

Despite his mother’s advice to say hello to Hermione at the office and see how it went, Draco had decided to revert to his tactic of purposeful avoidance of the witch. He didn’t think he could bear to hear “Malfoy” from her mouth just yet, and if he wasn’t mistaken she was avoiding him, too. It had been altogether too easy to dodge her presence that morning, and he could’ve swore he’d seen a flash of bushy brown hair ducking behind a cubicle when he’d turned a corner. 

_Embarrassed_ , he’d thought, _just like I told mother she would be._ He could not really blame her. She had opened up to and flirted with her childhood bully. She was probably ashamed of herself. Perhaps she was regretting opening a dialogue between them. Perhaps she wanted things to return to how they had been before the pub; stiff, cordial, limited. 

He tried not to let it get to him. He was already convinced that he did not deserve friends, least of all her. It was exceptionally lonely, being Draco Malfoy.* He’d gotten used to this fact, even liked the solitude at times. The friends he’d had at school were never truly friends, they were minions, so operating independently was his norm, and he was used to having no intelligent outlet for conversation. He’d seen Harry and Alicia in passing at the office, and they had been much more pleasant to him than usual, but he hadn’t gone to the pub with the intention of becoming chummy with all of his coworkers; he had only cared about one, and she was the only one ghosting him.

He’d told himself, in an attempt to preclude the inevitable crippling depression, that it would be better if she ignored him. He should have never opened the door between them to begin with, and she’d be helping him by closing it when he couldn’t. He had finally found some kind of peace in knowing he’d never have her, and even the slightest hint that he could be wrong was nothing but harmful to that peace. He should thank her for avoiding him. He should be pleased.

He wasn’t, of course, and the part of him that refused to let go of his obsession with Hermione won out. Hope, as searingly painful as despair, prevented him from moving on; hope that they could be friends, hope that he could at least have her in his life. He would give her space, he decided, until the quidditch game. He would go to it as promised, and he would see what happened. The extreme high of being with her was worth the extreme lows that followed. He would try to act normal and nonchalant, as though she hadn’t made his year with her casual flirting. He would simply be himself, treat her like he would treat any other person, and come what may. His emotional state could not really get much worse, so what was the harm? 

Having decided on this plan, Draco attempted to focus on his pile of paperwork; he did not enjoy the Ministry’s antiquated recordkeeping system, and could not understand why it should fall on an Auror to complete the tedious documents when his time could be much better spent elsewhere. Jessica, the department secretary, had offered to help him numerous times, but her offer of help seemed to come with conditions, conditions that he was almost willing to accept when his pile grew particularly daunting. He had made a bit of progress when he decided to go to lunch. 

He normally brought his own lunch in, as it made it easier to eat alone at his desk, (not to mention he was used to a classier fare than what the Ministry provided), but his preoccupation with Hermione over the weekend had taken priority over food preparation, so he purchased from the Ministry’s cafeteria instead. As he was walking with his tray of food to a table in the cafeteria’s corner, he spotted Harry and Hermione eating together. The former locked eyes on him, and the latter was hunched over the table, absorbed, as usual, in a piece of parchment, her mouth going a mile a minute. Draco turned quickly, wanting to avoid the awkward interaction to come, but Harry stopped him with a yell.

“Oy, Malfoy!” 

Warily, Draco turned back, suppressing a sigh as he approached the pair. Hermione was now hissing something in Harry’s direction, her eyebrows drawn down in consternation, and Harry said something back out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry said when he reached them, not a trace of awkwardness in his voice, which was especially impressive given that Draco had clearly just interrupted a whispered argument between the two friends. 

Hermione smiled up at him, though it looked strained.

“Potter,” Draco nodded formally. “Granger.” 

“Malfoy,” Hermione acknowledged, her smile faltering a bit before she looked back down at the parchment before her. The use of his surname hit him like a gut punch, but thanks to his hours of tossing and turning in preparation for this moment, he was able to remain standing. 

“Perfect timing. You two’ve got a new assignment together - Hermione’s got all the details - and I’ve just remembered, I’ve got to go, uh, you know - to a meeting with.. Arthur Weasley. So you can keep her company and discuss your strategy going forward.” Draco wished he could close his eyes and pray for patience. He had thought he’d figured out the reason for Harry’s interference in his life - that the man thought he was socially isolating himself for Hermione’s benefit - but now that the theory was out in the open and seemingly addressed, the continued interference was a bit grating. Hermione was clearly trying to avoid Draco; the glare she aimed at Harry proved that. Forcing them to eat together was helpful to no one.

“Harry, I’m sure you’re confused. You told me that meeting was on Wednesday,” Hermione said, a slight pleading tone evident in her voice.

“I did say that,” Harry responded after a pause, “but Arthur sent me a memo earlier and asked that I come today.” 

Many things about this excuse were suspicious - the way it was delivered, that Harry had chosen to go to lunch at this time if he knew he had a meeting, the person with whom the meeting supposedly was - but Draco did not feel like arguing, and if he really was assigned a task with Hermione, they’d have to discuss it at some point; this, at least, was something he could accomplish. He had done it before. 

“Great,” Harry said when Draco set his tray down. “I’ll see you later, Hermione. Oh, and Malfoy. Do me a favor and get some damn paperwork done.”

The scarred man was gone before Draco could reply. He sat down at the table slowly, not looking directly at Hermione nor the dress she had opted to wear that day, which had long sleeves and was wrapped about her waist. A necklace lay right at the dip of the v-neck, and Draco had to resist the magnetic draw of it, looking only through his peripheral vision. He knew immediately that his plan to treat her like he would anyone else would fail spectacularly. She slid the piece of parchment she’d been absorbed in across the table, and he seized on an excuse to not speak for a while. He read it slowly, chewing over every word, his mind whirring as he tried desperately to think of something to say.

“We’ll have to think of a strategy,” Hermione said quickly, and then began chattering nervously about her ideas and when they could get started. He let her ramble, nodding or making noises of affirmation when appropriate, while he observed her. Though she had called him Malfoy and had clearly been arguing with Harry about inviting him to lunch, she was definitely talking to him more than was the norm for their shared assignments, and she was obviously nervous; her cheeks were tinged pink and her hands never stopped moving, flitting from her food to her hair to the parchment describing the case. 

“-we could always use the Ministry’s archives if we need to, and - it wasn’t the booze talking, you know.” 

“What?” Draco started, convinced the words had not processed properly; she had changed topics so abruptly he had almost missed it entirely. Her cheeks flared from pink to bright red, and when their eyes met she began absently fiddling with her necklace, but did not look away. That she didn’t meant he couldn’t, so he stared into her eyes, her endearingly earnest eyes, his jaw tightening as he did so.

She sighed, and took a bite of her pasta before continuing. “I meant what I said. At the pub. It wasn’t the alcohol.” Still she held his gaze, though he felt her foot begin bouncing up and down. 

“Oh,” he ground out after tearing his mind away from imaging her crossed legs in that dress. He clenched his fists beneath the table and shifted his posture to preclude any problems down south, but he wasn’t overly worried. For some reason, ever since Friday she was not causing issues with his member. Instead, she was causing problems with his heart, which seemed to punch his chest wall from within. The searing hope he held for their friendship had replaced his blood and was over stimulating the organ, making him dizzy. 

The longer he sat in silence the more anxious her face became, and he realized she probably expected some form of reciprocation. 

“I mean, I’m sure the alcohol helped,” she squeaked, her fingers squeezing the charm of her necklace so hard they were white.

“Yes,” he agreed, his eyes flickering as he stoically held her gaze. “I could do with some now.”

She laughed nervously and dropped the necklace, then gathered her hair in one hand and pulled it all to one side of her slender neck. “I just thought this -” she gestured to the parchment, “would be easier if I - if I let you know that.”

“I - I meant everything as well,” Draco stuttered, feeling the conversation would be incomplete if he did not express this, even if it should be obvious. “I’ve wanted to say it for a long time, but intelligent women are intimidating, and that would make you the most intimidating witch of her age.” 

She snorted and raised her eyebrows, smiling slightly. “Very witty. Did you think of that on the spot?” 

He’d actually come up with the joke a while ago, during one of the many days he’d wasted away by imagining conversing with her, but there was no way he’d ever admit it. He smirked ruefully. “A little flattery goes a long way, or so I’ve been told.”

After that, it was astonishingly easy to talk to her. Draco felt he’d been struck by _Wingardium Leviosa_ as they discussed the assignment, which involved the removal of dark objects from some ancient wizard’s home. The man had allegedly stumbled across a chamber in the building unbeknownst to even him which was chock full of questionable artefacts. There was no rush on the timeline, as the chamber of the house was unoccupied and isolated, and the objects stagnant unless disturbed, so they could finish out their current assignments first. Hestia had given them a month to complete the task once they started, which would include determining and breaking any defenses the chamber may hold, removing any curses from the objects, and safely disposing of them or archiving them with the Department of Mysteries as appropriate. There had been a rash of these cases immediately post-war as Death Eaters houses were raided. 

“I never would have pegged you as an Auror,” Draco said after they’d cemented their initial plans. 

“No?” Hermione replied with a small grin. “I certainly wouldn’t have pegged you as one, either.” 

As he was unable to tell her that she was the motivation behind his career choice, and that if it wasn’t for her he’d still be stuck in the Manor in an even deeper pit of self-loathing than he occupied now, he merely shrugged.

“I never planned on it,” she continued. “Can I have a chip?” Draco nodded, the idea of sharing food with her causing an absurd gaiety to spread through his limbs. He watched, mesmerized, as she plucked one from his plate and dunked it in his ketchup, then popped it in her mouth. “I wanted to go back to Hogwarts, but with all that happened there… and without Harry or Ron, I don’t know, I just couldn’t. I’ll stay here for a while, but it’s not my end goal.” Draco didn’t want to contemplate what would happen to his psyche on the day she left the department.

She placed her thumb between her pursed lips, gently sucking the salt from it, and repeated the process with her pointer finger. Draco focused so hard on not staring at the action, which seemed to play out in slow motion, that in the end, he couldn’t say whether he’d actually done so or not. She licked her lips before saying, “I was a nervous wreck during my N.E.W.T.s.”

Draco could only imagine. His laugh was a bit delayed, his mind still replaying the image of her sucking salt off her thumb, though in his version she was eyeing him seductively as she did it. “I’m sure you got O’s all around.”

She smiled sheepishly. “Studying was about all I did after the war. Good distraction.” She glanced longingly at his chips, and he pushed the plate closer to her. She eagerly took another. 

“So…” she went on in a would-be casual voice, waving the chip through the air. “How did your newts go?”

Draco grinned and quirked an eyebrow. Even Slytherin house had known better than to ever bring up an exam within earshot of Hermione, lest they be pummeled with questions about their grades or an analysis of which questions she’d thought she’d answered incorrectly. “Oh, you know.” He popped a chip into his own mouth and chewed it slowly.

She watched him chew, the air thick with her anticipation. When he finally swallowed and still did not elaborate, she frowned at him. “That bad?” she questioned, shrugging and leaning back as if she didn’t care. “I mean, if you did well there’d be no reason for you not to tell me, so-” She cut off when he mirrored her shrug, his grin growing at her adorable attempt at reverse psychology. 

She changed tack at lightning speed. “Come on, you _have_ to tell me.”

“Do I?” 

She seized another chip with an angry jab of her hand and dunked it aggressively in the ketchup. “Had to be an E or an O in charms, transfiguration, DADA, otherwise you wouldn’t be an Auror,” she rattled off. “Potions was an O, I’m guessing; as I recall you were fairly good with them, even if Snape gave you special treatment.” She narrowed her eyes to study his reactions to her comment, but he did not take her bait. Instead, he continued to let his eyebrows do the talking, raising one as high as it would go. “What other subjects did you take?”

“Runes. Arithmancy. Astronomy.” 

“Oh, runes,” she exclaimed, momentarily distracted. “Remind me to show you a translation that’s stumped me. Were you any good?” 

“You mean, was I Outstanding?” He winked at her boldly, and imagined that she flushed slightly. “Nice try.”

“You’re insufferable,” she said with a roll of her eyes, but her smile betrayed her true feelings. She then reached to take another chip, her pasta seemingly forgotten; Draco had reached at the same time, and their fingers brushed together for a brief second. It was like a scene from one of his mother’s corny romance novels, but that didn’t stop the goosebumps the momentary contact sent shooting up his arms. Hermione’s breath seemed to catch in her throat, although that could be wishful thinking on his part, because she ate her chip as though nothing had occurred, and sucked her fingers free of the salt with finality. Draco swore he felt his manhood twitch at the alluring gesture, and so vowed to stay seated until she was gone. He cleaned his own fingers on a napkin, attempting, unsuccessfully, to quell a daydream of them in her mouth instead. 

“I’ve got to get back to work, but stop by my desk later so I can show you that rune.” She leaned down to gather her bag, and Draco averted his eyes to avoid staring down her dress. Uncontrollable erections or not, even the strongest man would have problems remaining unaffected with the daydreams Draco was currently experiencing, which had evolved to slowly unwrapping that dress from her body. He wondered, not for the first time, how Harry and Ron could be so close to her and not experience the problems Draco was battling. She stood, straightening the garment about her hips. “And Malfoy?”

“Yes?” he asked, barely even registering the use of his surname. What did it matter? If this was what friendship with Hermione was like, she could call him ‘ferret’ for all he cared. 

“I _will_ get those scores.” 

He watched her walk away, her dress swaying about her thighs, and he had to focus his thoughts on his great grandmother, on Hagrid’s blast-ended skrewts, on Ron vomiting slugs, to prevent his daydreams from entering the territory of full blown debauchery.


	11. Chapter 10 - Harry's New Opponent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wasted far too much time trying to think of a clever way to announce this, so I'll just simply say: I'm pregnant. First baby, been trying for a while (a LONG while), about 5 weeks along. We'll see how it affects my motivation to write. Hopefully I can think of a better name than Harry did!

Chapter 10 - Harry’s New Opponent  
April 15, 2001  
Hogwarts Pitch  
1:05 pm 

“You know I don’t like quidditch, and I don’t even play, I just sit in the stands and read, and I’ve got a really important assignment that I-”

“Come off it, Hermione,” Harry said exasperatedly. “I’ve told you, you’re staying! Malfoy is obviously the most comfortable around you, don’t you want him to-”

“That is in no way obvious, and besides, this has nothing to do with him, I just-”

“You’re already here, what’s the point in leaving? Do some work in the stands.”

“It’s - I- it’s not that type of-”

“She still trying to talk her way out of it?” Ginny asked as she walked over, levitating the chest containing the quidditch balls in front of her. She, like Harry, was decked out in her old Gryffindor quidditch robes. “I had to deal with that all morning.” When Hermione’s owl had arrived at Grimmauld place, holding a note saying she could not make it to the match, Harry had immediately dispensed Ginny in reply.

“It’s a valid reason - like I said, I don’t even play-”

“So play, then,” Ginny said. “I’m sure we can find a spare broom.”

Hermione scoffed, crossing her arms. “Definitely not.”

“Stop it, Granger. We both know you’re nervous because you’ve developed a thing for Malfoy. I promise, it’ll be fine. I can even summon you a bottle of Ogden’s Old, if you think that’ll-”

“Very funny, Weasley,” Hermione shot back as Harry snorted. “I haven’t developed a thing for him, we’re just friends, this is completely unrelated-”

“Besides, what’s there to be nervous about?” Ginny interrupted casually as she released the snitch into the air. “He apologized, you forgave him, everything’s all hunky-dory.”

“I - I’m not nervous!” Hermione denied petulantly. “I have work to do..”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Harry is essentially your boss, and he’s giving you the go ahead to skive off for a bit. Sit back and enjoy the view, I say.”

Hermione did not have a response for that; come to think of it, nor did Harry, who was momentarily discombobulated by the fact that Ginny had presented the act of watching Draco fly as ‘enjoying the view.’

“It’s settled, then. You’ll stay.” Harry clapped both hands together and lifted the quaffles out of the chest. As he and Ginny busied themselves with readying the field, Hermione attempted to disappear into the stands, but Harry seized her arm and insisted she stay to at least greet their friends, who slowly trickled onto the field, Draco last of all. Harry saw Hermione surveying him from afar, her cheeks already pinkening. 

He had prized the rundown of her lunch with Draco from her with great difficulty; she was reluctant to discuss it, perhaps because she was warring with herself over her developing feelings for the Slytherin, or maybe Ron’s presence had something to do with it. Harry wasn’t really sure, and even Ginny had been unable to gather more information; the stack of hastily hidden _Witch Weeklys_ in Hermione’s flat had said more to them about Draco than she had. Still, the lunch had seemed to go well, and Draco actually looked happy at work for once, rather than forlorn. 

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry called, waving him over. The blond looked anxious as well, though he certainly had more of a right to be. He turned his eyes to each member of the crowd, lingering momentarily on George Weasley, before his gaze finally rested on Hermione. Harry followed Draco’s eyes, and saw Hermione meet them before she hastily looked down. Perhaps it was the group setting that was unnerving them both; Hermione did not seem to have any issues talking to Draco when he was alone at his desk. 

Draco was wearing his Slytherin robes, the only bit of a green in a field of red and gold - and a bit of blue. Hermione was sporting a red and gold sweater to show her house pride. 

“Hello, Malfoy,” Hermione said.

“Granger,” Draco acknowledged after clearing his throat quietly. He waved awkwardly to the rest of the crew, who were involved in admiring Ron’s new broomstick, a Cosmic Legend. Ron’s first major purchase had been a new broom, however financially unwise it may have been; Aurors were not necessarily rolling in galleons.

“Hey Malfoy,” Ron said gruffly. He tried in vain to hide the new broom from Draco’s sights, as though embarrassed by it.

“Is that the Cosmic Legend?” Draco asked in astonishment. Harry noticed with a slight jolt that Draco still carried his now outdated Nimbus two-thousand and one. Harry still had his Firebolt and knew he would keep it for as long as it lasted, because it had been a gift from Sirius. He wondered what would make Draco, a person with seemingly endless wealth and no qualms about spending it, a person who had bought his way into quidditch to begin with, hold onto such an old broomstick. 

“What, surprised I can afford it?” Ron replied savagely.

“No,” Draco said in a tone of careful calm. “I just - can I have a look at it?”

Ron looked as though Draco had asked if he could wallop Ginny in the face with it. He glanced at Harry, as though for some reason Harry had to give him permission to show Draco his new broom. Harry suppressed a chuckle and nodded encouragingly. 

Turning, Harry saw that Hermione had a small smile on her face, her nerves apparently dissolving as Ron and Draco interacted. Her eyes locked on Draco’s Nimbus 2001 temporarily, and then, if he was not mistaken, lingered on his shoulders for longer than was necessary before returning to his face. Harry instinctively squared his own shoulders, mimicking Draco’s aristocratic posture.

Draco let out a low whistle as he observed the broom’s balance. “Seems they’ve really stepped up their game.” 

“Yeah,” Ron said enthusiastically, never able to resist talking up the broomstick. “It’s a mahogany handle, top notch really, and they’ve even done a custom engraving for me, look.” Ron pointed to where the company had spelled his name and position onto the broom. “And it’s got a cushioning charm, an advanced braking charm…” 

Ron continued to ramble to Draco about the broom, and Draco actually appeared interested. Ron even let Draco hold it, though he kept his own hands hovering below it. Harry caught Hermione’s eye - she was now suppressing a laugh behind her hand. 

“If you’re quite done showing off, Ron,” Ginny said loudly over Ron’s description of the Legend’s anti-theft charms, “we’d all like to play sometime today.”

“Right,” Ron said, ears reddening as he seemed to come to his senses and realize just who he’d been ranting to. Draco seemed to have been jerked out of a reverie as well, but if he was embarrassed he hid it ten times better than Ron.

“So the seekers pick the teams,” Ginny told Draco, “and we usually play without bludgers. Just easier that way.” George made a noise of dissent; he was the only person put out by this rule. Susan and Hermione did not play quidditch, so George and his wife, Angelina, joined the games instead. There were occasions when they had enough people for two full teams - usually when all of the Weasleys got involved - but for their regularly scheduled games, they used two chasers, a seeker, and a keeper per team. “Harry’s team won last time, so he picks first.”

Harry surveyed the group, and, in an attempt to prevent any problems, pointed at Ron. 

“Best friend before girlfriend, Potter? Interesting choice. I’ll take the female Weasley.”

“Smart,” Ginny and Harry acknowledged simultaneously. A team containing both Ginny and Harry was nigh on unbeatable. “And you can call me Ginny,” she added, raising an eyebrow at Draco, who nodded, looking slightly abashed.

“Alright, I’ll take Alicia, then,” Harry said, pointing at her. 

“Anthony,” called Draco.

“Get over here, Angelina.” Angelina smiled at Harry and walked over to join his team. 

“Is Granger up for grabs?” Draco asked, a small grin forming on his face as his eyes flickered between her and George. “If I recall, her flying was quite atrocious, but…” _But she doesn’t want revenge against me,_ Harry internally finished the sentence.

“I will have you know,” Hermione told him, “that I have flown on the backs of a hippogriff, a thestral, _and_ a dragon.” One of Draco’s eyebrows quirked in response. 

“Yes, but none of those experiences improved your abilities on a broomstick,” George pointed out, while the rest of the group laughed at her. Draco’s grin widened as Hermione huffed.

“I have made my peace with being terrible at flying, thank you all very much,” Hermione whined, crossing her arms. 

“Yes, yes, one can only be good at so much,” Ginny consoled her. “No, Malfoy, Hermione doesn’t play. That leaves you with my wonderful brother here; he keeps when he can’t fulfill his need to pelt bludgers at people.”

“Ah. Weasley it is.” Draco said somewhat nervously. Draco had been directly responsible for Fred and George’s quidditch ban during the last year they’d been at Hogwarts, a fact that George had definitely not forgotten. 

As George walked over to the team which now comprised Draco, Ginny, and Anthony, he had an obviously manufactured look of innocence plastered to his face. Draco did not know him well enough to spot it, but did seem to know that he would not leave the field without some sort of Weasley twin prank. Given how the twins had famously revenged themselves on Umbridge, Draco had every right to be nervous.

“Alright,” Harry said, clapping his hands together. “Team huddles! Let’s talk strategy.”


	12. Chapter 11 - Draco's New Palette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the pregnancy congratulations. It's definitely exciting but also very nerve wracking! I feel anxious about EVERYTHING especially since we've been trying for so long. And of course it happens after I'd pretty much given up hope, so I just spent a ton of money on other things... xD So far my main symptom is pure exhaustion. I meant to post this sooner as it continues the quidditch scene but I got distracted by sleeping constantly, I'm sorry. I'll try to post the final quidditch chapter within a few days.

**Chapter 11 - Draco’s New Palette**  
April 15, 2001  
Hogwarts Pitch  
1:30 pm 

As Draco had donned his quidditch gear that morning, he could not help but be nervous, though for once his nerves had nothing to do with Hermione. 

It had been almost a week since he had dined with her, and they’d interacted a few times since then, though they had not yet started on their shared assignment, as she had one to finish up first, and he had his backlog of paperwork. She had commented on it when she’d stopped by his desk a few hours after they’d had lunch.  
_  
“Can I interrupt for a moment?” she said, her voice rousing him from the brain fog working on his paperwork had caused. He looked up; she was leaning against his cubicle with her shoulder and hip, the opposite arm clutching a piece of parchment. He was eye level with her chest, which wasn’t a great position for him to be in, given how hard he’d had to work to quell his earlier fantasies about her._

_He nodded in response, setting down his quill._

_“It’s the rune I was telling you about earlier.” She handed him the piece of parchment, which contained a page full of runes with translations scribbled below all except one. She pointed to it. “I thought it was dagaz at first, but -”_

_“It’s othila,” Draco said swiftly. “Albeit roughly scribbled. The translation is-”_

_“Home,” they chorused together, and Hermione beamed at him._

_“I’m going to like being able to ask you things,” she said, pushing off the edge of his cubicle. “Harry and Ron are about as useful as a plastic cauldron when it comes to runes. Thanks, Malfoy.” Before she walked away, she cocked her head towards the stack on his desk with a look very reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. “Better get back to it, if we’re to start our assignment as planned.”_

A few days later, while he was helping Anthony work out the ingredients in an illegal potion he’d acquired, a harassed looking boy of around seventeen years old had come up to them, claiming he was doing a survey on the average N.E.W.T. scores of an Auror post-war. He rambled on about why it was important to determine if the war had affected the selection process to the department, and asked Anthony for his scores first. Anthony provided them without question, and they were fine scores worthy of a Ravenclaw, so when Draco’s grin grew ever wider it caused Anthony to question his sanity. Draco refused to provide his own scores, which sent a livid Hermione to his desk half an hour later. 

“You owe me!” she’d cried, after he’d refused her requests to share his scores a few more times. She was stopping just short of outright begging for them. 

“I’ve repaid you in chips,” he’d drawled with a smirk. She had stomped off, again proclaiming that she would get his scores out of him eventually; and he knew she would, because he was just as eager to share them as she was to learn them. He just wanted his fill of her pathetically adorable tactics first.

When he’d arrived at the field, there she was, hair blowing in the breeze, red and gold sweater hugging her form, jeans sliding into ankle boots. She had a petulant look on her face that transitioned to nervous blushing when he approached, and she met his eyes for a moment before looking down at the ground. He would’ve given anything to be able to read her mind just then, but unfortunately he was much more skilled at occlumency than legilimency. 

He’d been momentarily distracted by Ron’s Cosmic Legend. It was a top of the line broomstick, and Draco still flew on his Nimbus two thousand and one. He could easily afford a Legend and had considered it a few times. There were two reasons he never upgraded. The first involved his father, a subject almost as painful to Draco as his past misdeeds. 

After the war, Draco’s parents had found him, and they’d huddled together in the Great Hall, crying. They were all, miraculously, alive. Despite all that had happened, they had made it. Voldemort was defeated, and this time for good.

Lucius was swiftly locked away in Azkaban with a life sentence, along with any other Death Eater who’d been caught. Draco and Narcissa were devastated, but not surprised. There would be no leniency for Lucius again, no matter how much money he tried to throw at the Ministry, not with Kingsley Shacklebolt as the Minister. Draco could not blame the Minister for his attitude, as his father was a second time offender and had been instrumental in many of Voldemort’s plans. Hell, the Manor had been the Death Eater’s headquarters. 

At first, Draco had blamed his father fully and completely for almost everything he’d ever done. _If father hadn’t raised me like that… If father hadn’t been involved with the Dark Lord…_ He could almost believe he’d been an innocent pawn, merely manipulated into doing the evil things he’d done. The old Draco was always quick to blame others for his actions, and his father was the perfect scapegoat.

That didn’t last long. He supposed he’d always known there were holes in his logic, but when his mother made up with her estranged sister, Andromeda, his arguments crumpled completely. If Andromeda, who had been raised by the same parents as his mother and his aunt Bellatrix, could marry a Muggleborn and fight for good, Draco had absolutely no excuse. It didn’t stop him from resenting his father, but it did help him in accepting blame for his own actions.

Draco’s feelings toward his father were complex and ever changing. Some days he hated him; other days he missed him so badly he felt weighted to the ground by it. He had not yet visited Lucius in Azkaban and had no immediate plans to do so. The broomstick had been a gift from him, during a time when there was no Voldemort influencing their lives, during a time when Lucius had been Draco’s idol. His father had been genuinely excited for Draco to join the quidditch team, and had even taught him a few tricks using the broomstick. He couldn’t bring himself to upgrade it just yet. 

The second reason involved the Golden Girl.

_At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,_ she’d said to him in their second year. That comment had angered him more than perhaps any other she’d thrown his way, mostly because it was true. He hadn’t tried out for the team at all, he’d merely bribed Marcus Flint. He was a skilled flyer and had, he hoped, proved it; but he had never shaken her comment and the disdain with which she’d said it, as though using money to achieve your desires was the most disgusting thing she could imagine, an attitude Draco did not comprehend until years later. It had eaten at him when his entrance to the Auror department had required a bribe, though he did think these circumstances were slightly different, as he was fully qualified and needed the bribe simply to overcome the negative reputation now associated with his name. 

When the time came to pick teams, he chose the girl Weasley first, and the ease with which she asked him to call her Ginny made his throat go dry. Was it really _that_ simple? _You can call me Draco,_ he imagined saying to Hermione, and almost snorted. 

“I will have you know,” Hermione haughtily informed him, after he joked about having her for his team, “that I have flown on the backs of a hippogriff, a thestral, _and_ a dragon.” Draco recalled having read about the thestral and the dragon in some of Hermione’s post-war interviews, but a hippogriff? Could it have been the hippogriff that had mauled him and mysteriously escaped its captivity the day of its execution? That was a story he’d _love_ to hear.

So, of course, he was left with George Weasley for his team. He’d nearly turned tail when he’d seen George there. He’d been assaulted by one twin or the other in his fifth year - Harry had participated, as well - after he’d mercilessly insulted their families. Dolores Umbridge had then banned the twins from quidditch during their last year of school. Draco knew that Fred Weasley was now dead, and he’d often felt remorseful of stealing away the boys last year of flying, though it was one of the lesser offenses he’d committed, and the punishment had ultimately come from Umbridge, who was looking for any excuse to stop the Gryffindors from flying, anyway. 

Harry called his team over for a huddle and Draco supposed he should do the same. Warily he gestured the group closer to him, always keeping one eye on George. As Ginny, Anthony, and George formed a circle around him, he felt a slight tap on his shoulder. He looked over his shoulder as much as he could without turning his back on the twin to see Hermione. 

“I just wondered what color you’d like to be.”

Draco narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What?” 

She gestured to Harry’s team. “Red and gold.” She gestured to the disparate colors of his own team. “I transfigure the robes of whoever’s got poor Anthony,” she explained, “because he’s usually the only non-Gryffindor, you see, and-”

“And you’re by far the best at it,” Anthony cut in, aiming a wolfish grin at her. “I always say she should’ve been in Ravenclaw,” he added, looking knowingly at Draco. “All those brains…”

To Draco’s great despair, Hermione pinkened and said, “Oh, stop, it’s an easy spell, you’d be perfectly capable…”

Draco felt a tearing in his gut as the dragon slumbering there awoke and tried to fight its way to Anthony. Draco was ready to leave right then and there, and immediately began contemplating excuses. His theory that Anthony and Hermione had something going had been right, and there was no way he could stand around and watch them flirt. Not only would he lose Hermione and his mind, he would lose Anthony, the only person who was even close to being his friend in recent years. 

However, while he was weighing the benefits of announcing a sudden stomach flu (an excuse that would not be altogether untrue) versus a family emergency, Ginny caught his eye. She was giving him a strangely intense look, and though he was not a skilled legilimens, when she angled her eyes toward Hermione and raised her eyebrows, he knew exactly what she meant to say. For some reason the look filled him with a determination he could have never come up with on his own. 

“I’m sure the sorting hat had a difficult time with her,” Draco drawled, tilting his head toward Anthony. “Apparently, it was too blinded by bravery to notice the brains.”

Hermione’s face immediately brightened, but she smiled slightly, and Draco hid a smirk by turning towards his right shoulder as though cracking his neck. He noted Ginny’s nod of approval. He would consider the meaning behind it later. 

“The hat considered each house, actually.” One of Draco’s eyebrows rocketed into his hairline at this information. He would believe all of the houses, all except Hufflepuff, which to him was the house that took only those unwanted by the others. 

“Even Slytherin?” Anthony asked, wincing at a look from Draco.

“Yes, even Slytherin,” Hermione acknowledged, not elaborating further. “So, colors?” 

Draco shrugged; the success of his comment had boosted his confidence considerably. “Caster’s choice. I can make any color look good.” He spread out his arms to make it easier, while simultaneously exhibiting his form in the fitted robes. He knew, thanks to years of staring girls and a very vocal mirror, how good he looked in them. 

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Any color, you say? And you’re sure of that?” She smiled wickedly up at him, and he smiled back. He felt high off the euphoria of complimenting her, of teasing back and forth with her. 

He cocked his eyebrow in response to the obvious challenge. “You tell me.”

She raised a finger to her lips in contemplation, and finally raised her wand and performed the spell non-verbally. When Draco looked down, his robes were bright yellow, the snake on his chest now a badger. The clever witch had not missed the implications behind his raised eyebrow. Draco had to fight hard to keep his grin from reaching ‘insane’ territory again. He struck a pose for good measure, crossing one arm over the other and resting his fist beneath his chin.

“Hmmm,” she said, examining him critically. “Not bad, I suppose, but certainly no Cedric Diggory.” 

“I dunno,” George observed Draco with a hand on his chin as though contemplating a work of art. “The yellow of his hair and the yellow of the robes pair well together, don’t you think?”

“My hair is not _yellow,_ ” Draco cried, outraged. Hermione giggled lightly as she worked on George’s robes. 

“I could make it yellow,” George offered with a positively alarming smirk. 

“I would be careful of accepting any food or drink from him,” Hermione advised, moving on to Ginny’s robes. “He’s been known to give unsuspecting first years Nosebleed Nougat-”

“They were not unsuspecting, they were well paid,” George insisted, while he observed the effect of the yellow robes against his red hair in a mirror he’d conjured.

“I was never cut a check for testing your punching telescope,” Hermione retorted. “I had to go to Diagon Alley with a black eye.”

“That was - ah, a mistake, to be sure,” George floundered, “but I’m sure the thrill of telling the story is its own sort of payment.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably as Hermione moved on to Anthony’s robes. He recalled, vividly, seeing Hermione in Madam Malkin’s with a black eye. _Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers._ That had been soon after Voldemort had given him the impossible mission of killing Dumbledore. He’d been so eager. He’d been so proud. He’d been a fool.

“You’re telling me you can’t even offer me a free pygmy puff?” Hermione asked George as Anthony’s robes turned from blue to yellow. 

“I can’t believe you can do that while talking,” Anthony interrupted in an awe struck voice, examining his robes.

“We should really talk strategy,” Ginny said with a bit of a bite. 

Hermione nodded and, job complete, left the area, without, Draco noted, responding to Anthony’s comment. He watched her flounce off before he joined in on his team’s rapid discussion of strategy, which basically consisted of getting Ginny the quaffle as often as possible, and asking George to _please, please_ focus on keeping rather than amusing others. 

“Let’s do this,” Ginny said before they broke apart. “Potter, you’re going down!”


	13. Chapter 12 - Harry's New Humps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally regret naming each chapter. RE: future updates, two chapters are written but need touch ups. As always, thanks for all the reviews, there were some especially good ones this time around and I loved reading them. BTW, I do dream about this story sometimes, embarrassingly enough. I have a lot of dramione dreams. :D Enjoy.

Chapter 12 - Harry's New Humps

April 15, 2001

Hogwarts Pitch

1:45 pm

"Alicia, you stay on Anthony. Angelina, I want you on Ginny _constantly._ "

Angelina nodded fervently. "I'll ride her tail," she confirmed, and then, her own instincts as previous captain kicking in, added, "Ron, remember she tries to feint you almost every time."

"Right," Ron acknowledged, his face the familiar shade of green it had often adapted prior to quidditch matches, likely due to the obscene bet he had riding on it.

"I'll keep one eye on Malfoy," Harry said, glancing over at the other team, where Draco was standing with his arms spread out, wide grin on his face. Harry could hardly wait to hear Ginny's recap of whatever was happening across the pitch.

"No one's really fussed about your strategy, mate, just do what you do," Ron said.

"We can't let them win," Harry implored. "Ginny will never let me hear the end of it, for one thing, and for another I've never lost to Malfoy before."

"For a third, I'll go bankrupt if we lose," Ron added, swallowing audibly.

"Right," Harry said. "Listen, just keep the quaffle out of Ginny's hands. You two can score on George easily enough."

"He knows better than to block a goal from his wife," Angelina said, eliciting a laugh from Alicia. Harry grinned.

"All right, team. We flew together for years at Hogwarts, I am fully confident in our abilities. Gryffindor!"

"Gryffindor!" his team repeated.

"Potter, you're going down!" Ginny called as the teams walked to the middle of the field. Hermione had found her usual place in the stands and, for once, did not yet have a book open in her lap. She waved when she saw him looking.

Draco's team was clad in Hufflepuff colors, and Draco himself seemed to have a grin plastered irreversibly to his face, a combination Harry would've never even imagined could exist.

"We'll see about that," Harry called to his girlfriend. When the teams reached the center, Harry stuck out his hand and Draco, per tradition, shook it, although he did not follow previous Slytherin captain's tradition of trying to break Harry's hand while doing so.

"Good luck," Draco told him.

"And to you," Harry replied cordially, dropping Draco's hand and mounting his broom.

The first twenty minutes of the match passed normally enough. Ginny, as predicted, scored the most goals, making four in before Ron blocked two. Angelina and Alicia pelted two goals in each; George, as usual, did not care as much about keeping as he did amusing the other players. He called out jokes in a magically amplified voice, apparently taking the job of match commentator upon himself, and attempted ridiculous maneuvers when blocking. Draco and Harry circled the pitch, hunched over their brooms, eyes sweeping the clear sky for the tiny golden ball.

_And that's my gorgeous wife with the quaffle, pelting right towards me - and I'll fail to block it, of course, because I do desire to get some tonight - ouch!_

_Or she'll aim it at my head, effectively blocking it for me. Still tied at forty-forty._

Harry tried to focus on the game and ignore his matchmaking, but every so often he'd glance down into the stands to see Hermione actually watching. It was difficult to discern exactly who she was watching from this distance, but Harry definitely had his theory. It was confirmed when she stood up in the stands, hands covering her mouth, and Harry, looking around, saw Draco diving straight towards the ground.

_And Potter's apparently asleep at the handle, because Malfoy has spotted the snitch and is diving for it fast. Oh, there, Potter's woken up - the Firebolt has quite the speed advantage on the Nimbus 2001, so he's got a chance - by the way, anyone else wondering why the richest wanker of our age still has a Nimbus?_

Harry, cursing, pressed himself flat against the handle of his Firebolt and urged his broom forward with every ounce of will he possessed. He came up on Draco's tail and resisted the urge to grab it. He trained his eyes forward and finally spotted the tiny golden ball fluttering near the bottom of a goalpost, about a foot above the ground. He saw Draco's arm stretching forward, and Harry roared, pushing his Firebolt to the limits of its speed. George was screaming his commentary now, but Harry blocked it out; he needed to focus. He drew neck and neck with Draco, but the taller man had a longer reach. Draco was seconds away from catching the snitch, and Harry could _not_ let that happen.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Harry used his broom like a springboard and kicked forward, throwing his body off of it and at the snitch. With a surge of triumph he felt the wings crush in his palm, Draco's hand making brief contact with the back of his own hand mere milliseconds afterward, before he quickly drew his arms in as he hit the ground hard and rolled for a few feet before skidding to a halt. He listened for George to announce his victory, but all he heard was magically amplified laughter.

Draco landed beside him, his hair windswept. Harry didn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't a hand outstretched to help him up. He accepted the hand and let Draco pull him from the ground. Harry was covered in dirt and skid burns, but he'd endured far worse quidditch related injuries. He grinned at Draco.

"Sorry, mate," he said. "Maybe next time." George's laughter was abruptly cut off as he ended the amplifying charm.

The look on Draco's face was not the look of a man who had just lost a match and a substantial amount of galleons. In fact, Draco was chuckling, and it was quite alarming. Before he could question it, the other players had landed around him, a few of them collapsing off of their brooms in laughter. Stomach sinking in dread, Harry looked down and noticed two very unfamiliar humps protruding from his chest.

"What the…"

Ron had engulfed him in a hug, shouting his praises loudly, before Harry could fully process what had happened. The feebly struggling snitch was still clutched in his palm, and his girlfriend was rolling around on the ground, tears of laughter streaking her face. Harry was certain he had not accepted any food or drink from George; he had known not to do so for years. He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the seemingly innocent snitch in his hand.

Suddenly, Ron, who was simultaneously hugging him, laughing, and jumping up and down enthusiastically, was pulled away, and a cloud of frizzy hair invaded his vision. The un-laughing face of Hermione was glaring at him. "That was _so dangerous,_ " she chided, examining his injuries. "Is it really _that_ important to win?"

"I'm fine, Hermione," Harry said impatiently. "What…"

"That's not the point," she said, simultaneously dragging her wand over his arms and healing the wounds there. "You _could_ have hurt yourself, and all over a pick-up quidditch game. Honestly…"

"Hermione," Harry said exasperatedly, "What's happened to me?"

The corners of Hermione's mouth twitched as she looked at him. "I don't know what you mean…" she said, and then, grinning despite herself, added, "Harriet."

Harry rounded on George, who was rolling around near Ginny.

"You were supposed… supposed to…" George was attempting to choke out, his laughter preventing the sentence from fully forming. "Supposed to tell him…"

Ginny was having an equally difficult time communicating. "I thought… too… funny…"

Harry begrudgingly conjured a mirror and looked into it. He was not surprised when he saw a female version of himself staring back. His hair was now shoulder length, his chin rounded and petite, his eyes wide and heavily lashed. He had developed a healthy pair of quaffles, as Ron would put it, and he didn't dare consider what had happened between his legs.

"George!" he admonished. "What the…"

"Switch… snitch…" George managed to choke out. "Supposed to… let… catch..."

The laughter was beginning to die down, and Harry crossed his arms with considerably more difficulty than normal, given his new chest appendages. Even Hermione was giggling now.

"That's what you get for risking your life."

"He's fine, Hermione," Ginny, having finally recovered from her laughter, said. "It's Malfoy who needs consoling." Ginny gave Hermione a pointed look, and Hermione frowned in response.

"Consoling?" Draco asked with a small smile. "I'm used to losing to Potter." He ran a hand through his hair, which thanks to the wind was now lying across his forehead. "Though I must say I thought I had you this time. If it wasn't for my Slytherin preference of self-preservation…" he trailed off.

"I thought you were feinting at first," Harry said as he clapped Draco on the back.

" _I_ thought I was feinting at first," Draco replied, glancing at Harry's hand on his back confusedly. Harry supposed Crabbe and Goyle hadn't been big on the typical male signs of affection; and Harry maintained that it was a male sign, despite his current predicament. "That was my plan, but then I saw it…"

"I thought you did really well, Malfoy," Hermione said with a slight bite, "and there is nothing wrong with having at least a _slight_ care if you live or die." She glared at Harry again.

"Alright, alright, point taken," Harry said exasperatedly. "Don't you think this is punishment enough?" He gestured to his body.

Ginny slid her arm around his waist. "I think you make a cute girl."

"And how exactly did I get this way?" Harry asked, placing his arm around her shoulders. Ginny grinned wickedly.

"It was meant to be George's revenge against Malfoy," she explained. "I was supposed to tell you to let him catch the snitch first, but…" she shrugged. "Must've slipped my mind."

"It's a switch snitch," George explained. "Prototype."

Harry had not noticed any sort of transformation, but he had been pretty preoccupied with his tuck and roll.

"Thank Merlin you didn't," Ron cut in, "or I'd be crashing on Hermione's couch for a while."

"I suppose this means your revenge is still forthcoming," Draco said warily to George.

"Just waiting for a game where I'm allowed to use bludgers," George told him with a maniacal grin. Draco looked like he did not know whether or not to take the redhead seriously, and, really, neither did Harry.

They would have to wait until the next game to find out.


	14. Chapter 13 - Draco Discovers a Secret

April 16, 2001  
Ministry of Magic  
Department of Magical Law Enforcement  
Auror Headquarters  
09:00 am

Draco entered the Ministry the day following the quidditch match with great determination. He was going to confront Harry about his watchful eyes, about Ginny's insistent look. He had to find out why the pair seemed to be playing matchmaker, when they were the last people who should want him to be with Hermione.

The quidditch match had been more fun than Draco could have anticipated. It wasn't even all due to Hermione's presence. He genuinely loved flying and seeking, and opportunities to do so had been nonexistent in recent years. He'd never had a male friend, Crabbe and Goyle being more like bodyguards than anything else, and it was an odd feeling to discuss broomsticks with Ron or to be clapped on the back by Harry (or, in that particular instance, Harriet). It wasn't altogether unpleasant.

He was put out that he hadn't caught the snitch, of course, even if he considered George's trick. If nothing else, if he'd caught the snitch at least the Weasley twin's revenge would be over - though it appeared his idea of vengeance was not nearly as sinister as Draco had anticipated. It was enough, though, to hear Hermione say he'd flown well. It was worth the substantial amount of galleons he'd shelled out to pay off the bets he'd made against Harry to imagine her watching him as he circled the field. He may have held his shoulders a bit more taut than was strictly necessary, just in case.

After the game he'd laid around his flat for a while, images of Hermione and her wicked smile as she'd turned his robes yellow circling through his brain. He imagined her being sorted into Slytherin, although he supposed it wouldn't have made much difference - she would still have been Muggleborn, but maybe she could have converted him from his foolish beliefs sooner. He wasted much of the evening daydreaming of walking the halls of Hogwarts with her, of debating over various magical theories, of cozy study sessions in the library that often led to far more than studying.

At some point the memory of Ginny's intense look invaded his thoughts, and he recalled all of Harry's knowing smirks and less-than-subtle tactics over the past few weeks. He could not continue on with this new group of companions if he didn't find out what they were playing at. Was it some great joke? Some revenge prank? Was Hermione in on it? He did not think he could bear it if that was the case.

Shouldering his way through the door, Draco entered the Auror Offices, preemptively sulky about the conversation to come.

"Hello, Malfoy," came a bright voice to his left. He turned to what he already knew to be Hermione's desk with a somewhat forced smile.

"Good morning," he said, nodding at her before he made his way to his own desk. She got up and followed him, leaning against the edge of his cube while he dropped his belongings unceremoniously.

"I thought we might postpone our assignment a bit," she said, one hand casually placed along the curve of her waist. She sported a white blouse that folded over itself to form a loose vee, and interesting black and white checked pants Draco would have scoffed at on a mannequin; they of course suited her perfectly. "I think I'll need another week or so to wrap this one up, and your paperwork looks…" she trailed off, leaning a bit to look around him at the stack. "Thoughts?"

"Yes, sure," he said, nodding his head slightly as he sat down. He was so determined to confront Harry that he hadn't given much thought to conversing with Hermione today. It was still new to him, how she'd approach his desk like it was completely normal, and he found himself embarrassingly nervous.

"Have you recovered from the devastating loss yesterday?" she asked, giving him a half smile.

"I'd like to beat Potter one day," he said, shrugging one shoulder and resting one leg on the knee of the other, "but it was great just to play again."

She was silent for a moment. "If it makes any difference," she said finally, turning slightly pink, "I prefer you as the gracious loser to the gloating winner."

He immediately flooded with warmth and forgot he'd been worried she was in on some great prank against him. He raised an eyebrow, trying to act like her comment was not making his stomach flutter. "A gloating winner? Really, I don't know where you got that idea."

She merely stared at him, lip twitching, and he laughed.

"Okay, okay. I promise I wouldn't have gloated -" when her eyebrows shot up, he quickly added "- much! To be fair, it would've been my first win against Potter."

"Well, I suppose that's worth a bit of gloating," she acknowledged, standing up straight as she readied to leave. "Lunch later?" Her cheeks pinkened again as she asked, and she averted her eyes under the guise of nodding at a passing coworker.

Draco was so surprised he nearly choked. Sure, he had decided he'd start eating in the cafeteria, at least occasionally, in order to increase his chances of spending time with her; but he had never once thought she'd actually invite him to lunch, and the fact she seemed nervous about it for some reason made him feel giddy.

"Sure." Despite his best efforts to make the word sound nonchalant, it came out a bit high pitched.

She smiled happily, causing Draco's heart, as usual, to pound. He was still not used to her smiling at him. Perhaps he never would be. "Noon?"

"I'll be there."

She turned and walked away, leaving Draco quite unaware of the task he'd originally intended to complete that day. Instead, he sat in his cubicle, completely unable to focus on his paperwork. Time passed more slowly than Draco had previously thought possible. Finally, midday arrived, and Draco eyed his packed lunch before dismissing it, deciding that if there were chips for sale today, he would certainly be purchasing some.

Hermione was not at her desk, which was somewhat of a relief - Draco wasn't sure on the etiquette of meeting for lunch, given that he had never really done it before, and he'd much rather arrive at the table than stand awkwardly by her desk hoping she hadn't changed her mind.

A quick glance around the cafeteria revealed she was not there yet, so he purchased his food, warred with the idea of getting an extra piece of pie for her, decided against it, and then chose a table near the edge of the room. She had still not arrived, and after contemplating if it would be more strange for him to wait to eat or to start eating, he scoffed at himself and took a bite. He was taking this casual work lunch _much_ too seriously.

He did not want to be caught staring around the cafeteria for her, so he merely ate as though he was completely fine if she didn't show up. He was beginning to think maybe she'd been pulled away to some assignment or meeting, or, more self-pityingly, that she'd forgotten him completely, when she appeared across the table from him, tray of food in her hands.

"So," she started.

"So," he mirrored, gesturing that she should sit down. She set her tray down and shrugged her purse off her shoulders as she sat. She had that wicked smile on her face, the one she'd given him on the quidditch pitch, and though he didn't know what had prompted it, he was happy to see it again. There was a moment of silence while she readied herself, placing a napkin on her lap.

"Read any stars lately?" she asked, eyeing him as she took a bite.

"Pardon?" Draco responded, raising a brow.

"Stars," she repeated, her smile broadening. "I suppose it might be hard for someone with a mere E in astronomy to understand, but they're these things in the sky-"

"Wait," Draco interrupted, pressing down his own urge to grin. So she'd finally found out his scores. When she started laughing, he allowed a slight smile through. "How?"

"I have my methods," she said, stabbing a piece of broccoli with triumph. "I told you I'd get them."

Draco laughed, a full, loud, true laugh, the first abdomen-tensing laugh he'd had in years. She watched him with a look of bemusement on her face, but then joined in, laughing heartily as well. She covered her mouth with one hand, and her shoulders shook as they both laughed so loud and long that other people turned to stare.

"You have to tell me how you got them," he said in a breathy voice after his laughter had subsided.

"Do I?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him mockingly.

"Touchee," Draco acknowledged.

"Okay, fine. I happen to be very close to a certain family of redheads that is well connected within the Ministry. Perhaps I was able to find a record of your application to the department."

Draco hummed.

"What?"

"I was just thinking that the Sorting Hat was right to have considered Slytherin." He started laughing again.

"Oh, stop it," she said, rolling her eyes. "I won't take flak from someone with an E in Astronomy."

Draco called up the most superior voice he could muster; he hadn't used it in a while, but it still slumbered within him. "I hardly consider Astronomy to be a class, anyway. In my eyes our scores are equal."

She reached across the table and patted his cheek superciliously. "Poor, poor Malfoy. If that helps you sleep at night, sure, let's go with it."

Draco schooled his face into a neutral expression, and forced his body not to react to her touch, nor to the casual way she'd done it, as if they were old friends. "Tell me one time Astronomy has ever helped an Auror."

She launched into a tale of Bartleby Bazelle, an Auror from a few decades back, who had become lost in the woods after a botched spell during a duel. His wand was shattered, and he had used the stars to find his way back to civilization.

"Okay," Draco conceded, "So you can find one example."

"Don't make me look for more," she chided, stabbing her fork in his direction, and he knew she would.

"Malfoy," she said, after they'd eaten in silence for a few minutes. "All jokes aside, those were some very impressive scores." He felt his cheeks warm and his heart soar.

"Thank you." He hoped he conveyed in his voice, in his smile, just how much her words meant to him.

________________

The rest of lunch passed in a blur, and before Draco knew it he was back at his desk in front of his unmoving stack of paperwork. He kept replaying bits of their conversation in his head, and smiling like he'd been given a love potion. Thankfully, his cubicle was pretty well isolated, so no one would see his decidedly un-Malfoyesque expression - and if anyone walked by, he made sure to scowl.

After about an hour of shoddily completed paperwork, Draco heard Harry enter the office. Hearing his voice reminded Draco of his earlier determination.

If it turned out this was all a joke, especially after the lunch he'd just shared with Hermione, he didn't think he'd ever leave his flat again.

Draco let about ten minutes pass, then got up and went to the breakroom. As suspected, Harry was there, chatting quietly with Anthony and drinking coffee. Remembering Anthony's attempts at flirting with Hermione, Draco shot him a cool look. Anthony visibly flinched, and Draco felt somewhat guilty for his resentment of the man for having an interest in a woman anyone with half a brain would have an interest in.

"Potter," Draco interrupted. "Can I have a word? In private?"

"Yes, sure," Harry replied quickly, looking slightly relieved as he drained the rest of his coffee down the sink. "See you around, Anthony."

Draco led Harry to a mostly deserted corridor near the lifts. He leaned back against the wall and, not meeting Harry's eyes, said "I want to know what you and girl- ah, Ginny, I mean - are up to."

Harry's face screwed into an altogether unconvincing look of innocence. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Potter," Draco drawled, annoyed. "You lack the subtlety of a Slytherin. You're trying to do - something - with Granger and I. I would like to know what that is."

Harry opened his mouth as if to argue, and then broke into a smile, shrugging instead. "Alright, yeah, I'm trying to do - something."

Draco crossed his arms and waited, tapping his fingers impatiently along his bicep. When Harry didn't break the silence, Draco asked the question he dreaded the answer to. "And is this some sort of prank? Some kind of Gryffindor revenge? Set me up with her, then tell me it's all been a ruse?"

"What?" Harry spluttered, a believable look of shock etching his features. "A prank? No, Malfoy, whoa, you've got it way wrong."

"Enlighten me, then."

Harry glanced up and down the corridor, and then said in a whisper, "I just happened to notice that you seemed - I dunno, you seemed hung up on Hermione, and she's - she's so stubborn, you know, ever since she and Ron - well, she's been on a few dates but nothing serious." He shrugged. Draco remained quiet, and as expected, Harry kept talking to fill the awkward silence. "After the whole… trial… thing…" he paused.

"Yes?" Draco prompted impatiently.

"Well at first I thought you were avoiding her because you still hated her or maybe you resented her. Then I noticed a few - other things…" Harry trailed off, looking a bit uncomfortable.

"Like?" Draco again prompted, hoping fervently Harry had not noticed his errant erections - though if he had, that would really say more about Harry than Draco.

Harry flushed slightly. "Like how your chosen female companions have had wildly curly hair since then." Draco felt his own cheeks pinken in response. He had not ever expected anyone to notice that little tidbit, and found himself wishing Harry had noticed his below-the-belt issue instead. "She was still convinced you hated her, though, and she doesn't know about our meeting, as you know, so - I just decided to intervene. When we met in the Atrium…" Harry shrugged again. "I just thought, why not try to help two single coworkers at once? And Ginny seems to think you'd make a good pair."

Draco felt struck dumb by this new piece of information, and opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally landing on, "Why?"

"I dunno, female intuition? I'm no good at this feelings stuff."

"No," Draco said with increasing frustration, "I mean why would you try and set her up with _me_? There's any number of eligible men who would leap at the chance to date her."

Harry gave him a worried look. "You alright, mate? I just explained-"

"No," Draco interrupted with a growl, "you didn't. You did not explain why you would attempt to set your best friend up with the man who cruelly and mercilessly bullied her throughout school - with a former Death Eater. You did not explain why you would pull for me, when at our little _meeting_ you made it explicitly clear that I was to _stay away from her_." He looked at the floor bitterly. "You did not explain why you would orchestrate situations in which to put us together, when you should want nothing more desperately than to keep us apart."

Harry laughed uncomfortably. "I think you're being a little dramatic."

Draco glared at him.

"I know what I said," Harry started after a drawn out, tension-filled pause. "The war was still fresh. I was still -" he stopped, and ran a hand agitatedly through his hair. "Hermione told me I'd regret it if I didn't help you. She was right. I know you had - a - a tough time of things."

Draco snorted.

"Did you know my mum used to despise my dad?" Harry asked suddenly.

Draco was tempted to snap _how would I know that_ , but instead shook his head, remaining silent.

"Yeah," Harry said, again lowering his voice. "I saw a memory of them at school once. My dad was - let's just say he was a little like you were." He laughed awkwardly. "In the memory, he wanted to bully S- someone just because he was bored. He taunted the boy, jinxed him, embarrassed him horribly. My mum had to stop it. It was clear how much she despised him. It really messed me up at the time. I'd idolized my father, you know? I'd always thought he was everything I should be. People telling me I was like my dad was the highest compliment. Once I saw that memory, it turned everything upside down. I was ashamed of him."

Draco felt an uncomfortable roiling in his stomach at these words, some of which could've been ripped from his own mind.

"Then I spoke to some of his friends from school," Harry continued. "They told me my dad eventually changed, and then my mum fell in love with him." Harry looked up at him. "My dad was a bully, but he grew up. He showed remorse. And once he did, he had a chorus of people who were willing to defend him." Harry shrugged. "I think you could develop quite the chorus as well."

Draco, disgusted by the lump forming in his throat, did not respond.

"Look," Harry said quietly after allowing two wizards to walk past them, "I know what it's like to - to feel guilty, believe me."

Draco scoffed, thankful that the elderly wizard's slow hobbles had given him time to recover. "There is no way Saint Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, can understand -"

"No, Malfoy," Harry said angrily, cutting him off. "I do understand. I made choices that led to the deaths of loved ones. You don't know how that feels. How often I lay awake wondering how things could be different...If I could've..." Harry's voice faltered and he paused for a moment, looking away. Draco had never had such an intimate conversation with _anyone_ before, let alone the boy who apparently lived to make speeches. Draco had never considered how Harry would feel post-war. He would have assumed the boy who had saved them all could only feel happiness, relief. Instead, he was lying awake at night, much as Draco was, wondering how things could have turned out differently. Draco recalled Voldemort's haunting voice echoing through the halls of Hogwarts. _You have allowed your friends to die for you…_

Draco had never consoled anyone before, unless he counted soothing his mother's sobs for weeks following Lucius' sentence, and he had certainly never thought he would have to attempt to deal with someone else's guilt when his own was so strong. "You did what you had to do. You saved thousands of lives, including mine. People knew what they were risking and why." It perhaps came out a little brusque, but at least he'd tried.

Harry shrugged, brushing off Draco's words, and Draco understood. He understood that no one else could truly understand the weight of the guilt on Harry's shoulders, just as no one would ever truly comprehend Draco's own.

"I've dealt with guilt for years, whether rational or not. And I know - trust me on this - I _know_ Hermione would tell you the same thing she's always telling me. Forgive yourself." Harry paused. "She fought for you, even before you started coming around. _She_ believes you should be forgiven. If that's not enough to convince you, I don't know what will."

That pesky lump was returning to Draco's throat, and he again found himself wondering what points Hermione had presented in his defense, what had made her so certain he was worth saving, what he had ever done to deserve having her on his side.

"I'm her best friend. If I'm pulling for you, there has to be a reason for it." Harry raised his eyebrows pointedly, and Draco realized that Harry would not be doing this if he didn't think Hermione would be interested in return. "And Malfoy - I'd act while you still can. Anthony just asked me in the breakroom if I thought Hermione would go out with him. I think I stalled him, but it's up to you now."

Harry pushed himself off of the wall and walked away, leaving Draco more conflicted than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten this story! I'm just stuck. I've been back and forth on this chapter, which was originally two separate chapters, and ahhh I finally decided to just post it. I hope you like it; part of my original idea for this story was to eventually have Harry tell Draco of the similarities between he and James. I know where I want the story to go, it's getting there that's problematic. I apologize!


	15. Chapter 14 - Harry Discovers an Ally

Chapter 14 - Harry Discovers an Ally  
April 22, 2001  
12 Grimmauld Place  
7:30 pm

Harry walked into the living room of 12 Grimmauld Place holding a bowl of popcorn. Ginny sat on the couch, clad in a particularly alluring negligee, holding the remote to their television. Harry had insisted on getting one for the home, and though it had taken considerable spellwork (by Hermione) to make the device function in the distinctly magical home, it had been worth it. Even Ginny loved the telly, and they routinely watched movies together on the weekends. 

Harry, sporting his most masculine pair of pajamas, sat down next to his girlfriend and placed the popcorn in her waiting hands. “So she said Malfoy’s been avoiding her, and I just - I told her maybe he’s nervous, or something, but she’s obviously upset by it,” Ginny told him, continuing their previous conversation. “And they’re supposed to start working on that assignment soon.” She popped some popcorn into her mouth.

“It’s gotta be the Anthony thing,” Harry theorized, taking his own handful of popcorn and munching thoughtfully. “Maybe instead of motivating him to act it scared him off.”

“Maybe he thinks Anthony is more deserving,” Ginny speculated, “and he’s trying to cut things off to save himself hurt.”

Harry was sure she was right, and was always amazed with how astute women could be when it came to the complex field of feelings. If it was true, Harry’s attempt to prompt Draco to act had backfired horribly. 

“I doubt Hermione will say yes to Anthony when she’s got feelings for Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice muffled as kernels of popcorn rained from his mouth. “I shouldn’t really involve myself anymore, I mean, now that he’s aware of it.”

Ginny nodded her agreement. “I suppose it’s up to the two of them now, although it is unfortunate that Malfoy won’t-”

Ginny was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. The painting of Mrs. Black, had, thankfully, been removed by a skilled team of curse-breakers before Ginny would agree to live in the house, so no screeching answered the bell.

“I’ll get it,” Harry said. Ginny scurried off to their bedroom, likely to hide or change clothes. Harry did not look overly impressive himself, but given the time, it was probably one of their close friends at the door.

He certainly did not expect to see Narcissa Malfoy, looking positively glacial in arctic blue robes. She glanced at his pajamas with a somewhat contemptuous look before saying, “Hello, Mr. Potter. If I’ve come at an inopportune time-”

“No, no, that’s - um, come in,” he said, his extreme curiosity winning out over his better judgement. He attempted to nonverbally tidy the house in front of him as he led her inside. Kreacher, who was hobbling down the hall, almost fainted in elation at Narcissa’s presence, and immediately bumbled off to the kitchen to prepare some tea. 

Harry offered Narcissa a seat on a chair, taking his former position on the couch, where a few stray kernels of popcorn were quickly hidden beneath him. 

“I see you’ve found a way to get rid of Aunt Walburga,” Narcissa commented, sitting primly on the chair she’d been offered. 

“Yeah. Took some effort, but she’s gone.”

Narcissa smiled, and Harry wondered what her relationship had been like with the woman.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” Narcissa said, cutting to the chase. Ginny entered the room then, carrying the tea Kreacher had prepared and dressed in a significantly more appropriate outfit than pajamas. 

“My girlfriend, Ginny,” Harry introduced, taking a cup of tea. “Ginny, Narcissa Malfoy.”

The two women nodded at each other, and Ginny sat beside Harry. Narcissa paused, as though she had been hoping to speak to Harry privately, but after taking a regal sip of tea she started again. Harry had not known people _could_ take regal sips of tea, but Narcissa now filled that gap in his knowledge. He took a sip that was positively barbaric by comparison.

“Draco tells me that you have been playing matchmaker for him and Ms. Granger,” Narcissa said. “I wish to help you.”

Harry and Ginny exchanged a quick glance.

“He told you?” Harry asked, shocked.

“He was in a rather sour mood, which is not altogether unusual, but as of late he’s seemed much happier. I asked him why tonight was different, why he was sulking. After a considerable amount of prodding, he said he’d discovered your plot.” She shrugged. “I don’t think that was all he was upset about, but it was all I could get out of him, besides a few expletives and a repeated chorus of how he never should’ve started this ‘thing’ with Ms. Granger. How he would only hurt the both of them.” 

Harry glanced at Ginny again, and she raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know, um, Mrs. Malfoy -”

“You may call me Narcissa.”

“Alright, Narcissa - I don’t know how effective further interference would be with Malfoy aware of my intentions -”

Narcissa waved a hand through the air dismissively. “He won’t know of your involvement.”

“Narcissa,” Ginny interrupted, somewhat fiercely, “you _are_ aware of Hermione’s blood status, yes?” 

Narcissa turned her gaze to Ginny, and was silent for a moment before she answered. “I am aware, yes. I no longer concern myself with blood status. My son has been miserable for years. He has isolated himself. He has spurned any woman to approach him. The first time I have seen him happy since the war has been when he started this relationship with Ms. Granger. If it is she who makes him happy, I will do whatever it takes to give him the best chance at success. I assume you would not be playing matchmaker if your friend was not interested. If Draco is stopping this because of his own feelings of guilt, I feel compelled to intervene.”

Ginny appeared placated, and Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued. “So, er, what did you have in mind?” 

Narcissa sipped her tea again before responding. “I’d like to throw a large charity event. A ball. I will ensure my son attends; he simply loved attending balls as a child, and he dances as gracefully as an angel. My hope is that he will ask Ms. Granger to be his date. Or if he will not, that she will attend anyway. And…” she trailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken.

The ball idea struck Harry as a good one for two reasons; one, Hermione could hardly say no to a charity event, and two, a ball would force the two into close proximity, into dancing distance, and there would be champagne, _loads_ of champagne. Alcohol had very positively influenced their first interactions together, and Harry had grand ideas about where it could lead them in the future. 

It didn’t hurt that Ginny’s eyes had lit up at the word ball; she was obviously very excited at the prospect, which sparked an idea in him.

“So, umm, where do we come in?” Harry asked. 

Narcissa shook her hair back behind her neck. “I need ideas. Something that will encourage Ms. Granger to attend the event. It would be thrown at Malfoy Manor, and her experiences there are somewhat… traumatic.” Narcissa grimaced at the inadequacy of the word. “I do have great regrets for what my sister did. I hope you know that.” 

Harry felt a surge of pity for Narcissa, and nodded solemnly. 

“If you made the ball benefit magical creatures, Hermione would have no choice but to go,” Harry suggested warily. He wasn’t sure what Narcissa thought of magical creatures, but he assumed based on her prior Pureblood ideals that ‘half-breeds’ were probably not something she’d enjoy throwing stacks of galleons at. 

She cocked her head thoughtfully. “I do remember reading about her penchant for house elves. I assume you mean werewolves, centaurs, and the like?”

Ginny nodded enthusiastically. “She would _love_ that. Even if it was at Malfoy Manor, I think she’d have to go. Especially if Malfoy asked her. I mean, Draco. I bet we could get Rolf Scamander to attend. His grandfather was Newt Scamander, author of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them._ And he just so happens to be dating our friend, Luna Lovegood.”

Narcissa clapped her hands together excitedly. “That would be perfect!”

“We could call the event _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Fund Them_!” Harry put in with glee, overwhelmed with his own wit. When Narcissa and Ginny merely stared at him, he deflated. “Well, I thought it was clever…” He thought Rolf would rather appreciate the title as well, and made note to ask him about it next time they met up.

Narcissa turned her focus fully to Ginny after that, and the two of them rattled off numerous ideas regarding decorating the Malfoy’s ballroom, who to invite, and where the donations could go. They even agreed to meet again in the future to plan the event further, and Harry was included as a mere afterthought. Though Harry was eager to get the ball scheduled as soon as possible, Narcissa insisted it would take at least a month to plan the event properly. 

Harry hoped that Draco and Hermione’s shared project would force Draco to stop avoiding her while they set up their elaborate plan, but that wasn't the only reason he wanted a rush on the timeline. He had another plan in mind, as well. His hand automatically fell to where his pocket would normally be - to where he had been carrying around a ring for weeks, waiting for the right opportunity.

He had now found it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back... for a chapter, at least. A short Harry one, but it's something. If the next chapter goes how I think it's going to, it SHOULD make up for my long absence. 
> 
> By the way, I officially enter my third trimester today. :)
> 
> Enjoy!!


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